LETTERS  OF  A 
DAKOTA  D1VOR 


BERKELEY 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 


Letters  of 
A  Dakota  Divorcee 


By  Jane  Burr 


BOSTON 
THE  ROXBURGH  PUBLISHING  CO. 

INCORPORATED 


COPYRIGHTED   1909 

BY  THE  ROXBURGH  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


GRATEFULLY  DEDICATED  TO 
My  Sioux  FALLS  FRIENDS. 


LOAN  STACK 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE. 

This  little  volume  will  soon  assume  the  pro 
portions  of  an  invaluable  reference  book  as 
the  Divorcee  is  gradually  becoming  extinct 
in  South  Dakota. 

Species  may  thrive  in  a  given  latitude  and 
longitude  for  ages.  Suddenly  the  atmos 
pheric,  climatic,  or  diatetic  conditions  be 
come  so  altered  as  to  preclude  the  further 
development  of  the  species — yes  even  the  fur 
ther  survival  of  the  animal.  The  result  may 
be  either  of  two  alternatives: 

1st.  The  animal  finding  the  habitat  no 
longer  conducive  to  its  well  being  may 
migrate  singly  or  in  bunches  to  another  en 
vironment.  In  this  case  scientists  have  noted 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

that  the  animal  undergoes  a  considerable 
morphological  and  physiological  change. 

2nd.  In  an  environment  unfavorable  to  its 
existence  an  animal  may  become  extinct. 

In  the  case  of  the  South  Dakota  Divorcee 
the  former  alternative  would  seem  to  be  the 
course  followed,  for  up  to  date  the  animal  has 
shown  itself  to  be  quite  too  resourceful  to 
lapse  into  that  most  archaic  condition — ex- 
tinctness. 

Time  was  when  it  roamed  the  prairies  and 
hills  of  the  State  in  vast  herds,  but  owing  to 
the  removal  of  the  protective  underbrush  in 
the  form  of  the  Referendum  (which  decrees 
that  one  year  is  necessary  for  its  complete  de 
velopment),  it  has  gone  in  great  droves  to 
Nevada  and  Oklahoma,  which  promise  to 
be  a  more  suitable  environment  for  it. 

There  are  a  few  rare  species  left,  but  they 
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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

are  disconsolate  and  hang- jawed  and  by  no 
means  representative  of  the  species.  In 
former  years  the  Divorcee  reached  maturity 
in  three  short  months,  and  was  so  tame  that  it 
built  its  lair  near  the  city  limits  and  some 
even  ventured  quite  into  the  hearts  of  the  vil 
lages  and  attempted  to  live  there.  But  these 
were  half  tamed  individuals  and  by  no  means 
indicative  of  the  genus  as  a  whole.  Then 
peculiar  to  relate,  the  environmental  influ 
ences  caused  them  to  grow  less  rapidly  and 
six  whole  months  passed  before  a  single 
specimen  could  call  itself  full  fledged.  The 
other  Dakota  animals  sported  around  with 
the  Divorcee  and  received  it  a  bras  ouverts, 
but  the  latter  developed  a  slight  degage 
mannerism  and  the  other  beasts  grew  alarmed 
and  crawled  within  their  dens. 

Now  they  have  almost  died  out  entirely  as 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

the  atmosphere  grew  not  only  unfriendly,  but 
owing  to  the  sudden  cool  change  their  devel 
opment  was  intensely  slow.  The  animal 
originally  migrated  from  New  York  and  thus 
anything  slow  would  naturally  unnerve  its 
intuitively  high  strung  temperament. 

And  if  in  some  future  sociological  period 
of  the  earth's  history  some  antiquarian  of  the 
post-aviatorian  age,  prying  into  the  modus 
muendi  of  the  men  of  pre-air-shippian  times 
can  learn  "a  thing  or  two"  about  that  delicate 
gazelle-like  mammal  so  as  to  show  his  con 
temporaries  how  "fierce"  living  was  before 
the  age  of  trial  marriages  and  legitimate  af 
finities,  the  dessicated  author  will  rattle  what 
is  left  of  her  teeth  in  a  contended  mummified 
smile. 


Duckie  Lorna: 

Sip  a  mint  julip — slowly,  gently,  through  a 
long  dry  straw,  then  before  it  dies  in  you, 
read  my  P.  O.  mark — Sioux  Falls,  South 
Dakota,— Yes,  I've  bolted ! 

Don't  dare  to  tell  anyone  where  I  am  for  if 
my  husband  should  find  out,  he  might  make 
me  go  where  I  could  get  a  divorce  more 
quickly — You  know  I'm  here  for  his  health. 
I  would  splash  round  in  orange  blossoms,  and 
this  is  the  result. 

My  boarding  house  is  a  love,  furnished 
with  prizes  got  with  soap — "  Buy  ten  bars 
of  our  Fluffy  Ruffles  soap,  and  we  will  mail 
you,  prepaid,  one  of  our  large  size  solid  ma 
hogany  library  tables." 

Would  you  believe  dear,  that  these  Sioux 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

Fallians  have  already  complained  because  I 
bathe  my  dear,  shaggy  Othello  in  the  bath 
tub.  And  there  isn't  a  human  being  here 
with  a  pedigree  as  long  as  his. 

If  you  hear  any  talk  about  my  being  seen 
in  a  Staten  Island  beer  garden  with  Bern 
Cameron,  don't  believe  one  word  of  it — we 
didn't  go  in  at  all,  the  place  was  too  smelly. 
And  that  fib  about  his  giving  me  a  diamond 
ring, — deny  it  please,  as  I  have  never  shown 
it  to  a  soul — So  you  can  see  how  people  manu 
facture  gossip. 

I  walk  to  the  Penitentiary  for  recreation,  as 
I  may  have  to  visit  there  some  day  and  I  never 
like  to  be  surprised  at  anything.  It  isn't  re 
fined. 

My  Attorney  is  thoroughly  picturesque. 
He  wears  a  coat  in  his  office  that  his  wife 
must  have  made.  His  collar  came  from 
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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

Noah's  grab  bag,  and,  if  you  remember, 
there  was  no  washing  machine  on  the  ark. 
A  heavy  gold  chain  meanders  down  his 
shirt  front  to  protect  his  watch  from  im 
probable  theft.  On  Sunday  he  passes 
the  contribution  box  and  is  considered 
a  philanthropic  pest.  I  asked  how 
much  the  fee  would  be  and  he  said,  "One 
hundred  if  you  furnish  witnesses,  two  hun 
dred  if  we  do."  You  can  hire  a  man  for  five 
dollars  out  here  to  swear  that  he  killed  you. 

When  my  attorney  talks,  he  sits  on  his 
haunches,  showing  his  teeth  that  would  do 
credit  to  a  shark,  and  fancies  he's  smiling 
when  he  permits  his  cracked  purple  lips  to 
slide  back.  I  wouldn't  trust  my  case  to  him, 
only  he  could  not  lose  if  he  tried. 

Every  time  I  look  at  him  I  wonder  if  there 
could  be  a  face  behind  that  nose  and  those 
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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

whiskers,  which  give  his  head  the  appearance 
of  a  fern  dish.  He  wears  an  old  silk  hat  whose 
nap  is  attacked  with  a  skin  disease.  They  say 
he  belongs  to  one  of  the  first  families  of  this 
town — first  on  the  way  coming  up  from  the 
station  I  suppose.  He  was  married  years  ago, 
but  isn't  working  at  it  now.  I  am  so  unstrung 
after  our  seances  that  I  feel  like  crawling 
right  out  under  a  bush  and  eating  sage.  If  I 
weren't  afraid  of  him  I'd  raise  my  umbrella 
while  he  talks — his  conversation  is  so 
showery.  In  my  ingrown  heart  I  hate  him 
so  there  is  no  danger  for  me,  tho'  I've  heard 
that  he's  a  perfect  fusser  with  the  women. 

I  telephoned  the  livery  stable  yesterday  and 
asked  if  any  of  the  hearse  horses  were  idle,  as 
I'd  like  to  take  a  ride.  The  fellow  said  he'd 
send  me  a  winner,  so  I  togged  up  in  my 
bloomers,  boots  and  spurs  and  stood  on  the 
12 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

veranda  waiting.  A  young  boy  galloped  up 
with  something  dragging  behind  him.  I  said : 
"Do  you  call  that  insect  a  horse?"  he  an 
swered  ;  "No,  but  it  used  to  be,  m'am."  The 
poor  creature  was  all  bones  and  only  waiting 
for  a  nudge  to  push  him  into  the  grave.  I 
mounted  the  broncho,  which  kept  "bronk- 
ing,"  but  after  an  encouraging  tclk-tclk,  I 
made  a  detour  of  the  block,  then  sent  the  nag 
to  the  stable. 

There  were  two  children  and  a  dog 
drowned  here  yesterday — it  almost  makes  one 
afraid  to  go  near  the  tub. 

The  man  who  sits  on  my  right  at  the  table, 
says  he's  here  for  nervousness.  First  time  I 
ever  heard  a  divorce  called  that,  but  anyway 
we  all  know  that  he  gets  out  of  jail  on 
December,  and  I  will  be  glad,  for  the  way  he 
plays  the  anvil  chorus  with  his  soup  makes  me 
13 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

get  out  of  my  skin  backwards.  Hope  some 
day  that  the  Devil  will  play  dominoes  with  his 
bones. 

The  lady  on  the  other  end,  chews  with  her 
lips  and  of  course  I'm  always  excited  for  fear 
her  dinner  will  fall  overboard.  The  way  she 
juggles  food  would  get  her  a  job  in  the  vaude 
ville  game  any  day.  She  sits  up  as  tho'  she'd 
been  impaled,  and  the  shaft  broken  off  in  her 
body. 

Long  ago — a  being,  desirous  of  unhitch- 
ment  could  come  here,  rent  a  room,  hang  her 
pajamas  in  the  closet  and  fade  away  back  to 
Broadway,  but  times  are  changed,  and  you 
must  serve  six  months  or  the  Judge's  wife 
will  not  let  you  have  a  divorce.  The  Judge's 
house  is  next  to  mine  and  the  way  I  look  de 
mure  when  I  pass,  is  a  heathenism  hypocrisy. 
But  he  is  under  petticoat  tyranny  and  I  dread 

ruffling  the  petticoat. 

14 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

Formerly  the  law  was  three  months,  but  the 
Cataract  Hotel  had  the  Legislature  change  it 
as  they  could  not  make  enough  money. 

We  had  chicken  last  night  and  asparagus 
tips — did  you  ever  notice  what  a  lot  of  skin  a 
boarding  house  chicken  has?  And  the  tips 
just  missed  by  one,  being  tip.  The  meals 
are  an  unsatisfactory  substitute  for  something 
to  eat,  and  I  find  myself  filling  up  on  bread  to 
keep  my  stomach  and  backbone  apart. 

I  am  up  against  old  timers  that  are  always 
to  be  met  at  boarding  houses — the  dear  old 
soldier  and  the  lady  "too  heavy  for  light 
amusements,  and  not  old  enough  to  sit  in  the 
corner  and  knit,"  as  George  Ade  puts  it.  She 
is  simply  ubiquitous;  she  is  everywhere;  she 
does  not  gossip!  Oh  no!  Still  she  wonders 
if  they  really  are  married,  you  know,  and  if 
that  strange  man  is  her  brother  or  not?  Oh 

IS 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

you  know  the  whole  tribe!  Dear  old  para 
sites  on  the  body  politic!  I  have  also  had 
sudden  paralysis  of  the  jaw  from  looking  into 
a  country  mirror  and  was  not  again  con 
vinced,  until  consulting  my  own  hand  glass 
during  the  night  that  one  of  my  eyes  had  not 
slipped  down  below  my  nose.  I  can  get  along 
very  well  if  my  hair  is  not  parted  at  all,  but 
I  insist  upon  my  features  remaining  in  the 
same  locations. 

I  am  copying  down  some  of  the  stories  that 
I  hear  as  they  are  well  worth  it,  and  may  come 
in  handy  some  day.  I  have  the  advantage  of 
coming  upon  them  suddenly  for  the  first  time, 
with  an  absolute  unbiased  mind,  which  like 
the  Bellman's  chart  in  "The  Hunting  of  the 
Snark"  is  "a  perfect  and  absolute  blank." 

I  know  I  shall  go  mad  before  the  six 
months  are  up,  for  after  ten  days,  I  am  down- 

16 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

down  deep  in  a  bog  of  melancholy,  and  so 
bored  that  I  feel  like  the  president  of  the  gim 
let  club. 

My  stomach  like  nature  abhors  a  vacuum, 
so  me  to  the  strangled  eggs  and  baked  spuds 
which  are  our  unfailing  morning  diet. 

In  the  name  of  Charity,  send  me  messages 
from  the  world  I  love. 

Devotedly, 

MARIANNE. 


Dearest  Lorna: 

There's  an  old  maid  here  (Heaven  knows 
she's  out  of  place)  who  wears  her  hair  in  one 
of  those  "tied  for  life  knots,"  and  she  comes 
tip-toeing  to  my  room  each  night  to  ask  me 
if  I  think  she'll  ever  get  a  man.  Because  I've 
had  one,  and  am  making  something  that  re 
sembles  a  trousseau,  she  thinks  that  I  have  a 
recipe  for  cornering  the  male  market.  Her 
dental  arch  is  like  the  porte-cochere  of  the 
new  Belmont  Hotel,  and  last  night  a  pre 
cocious  four-year-old  said,  "Miss  Mandy,  why 
don't  you  tuck  your  teeth  in?" — Miss  Mandy 
would  if  she  could  but  she  can't.  She  is  the 
sort  who  would  stop  her  own  funeral  to  sew 
up  a  hole  in  her  shroud. 

The  moonlight  nights  here  are  a  perfect 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

irritation,  and  I  really  think  this  moon  isn't 
half  as  calloused  to  demonstration  as  our  dear 
old  New  York  moon.  There  are  so  few  men 
here  that  the  female  congregation  is  getting 
terribly  out  of  practice. 

I  have  found  out  lately  that  our  attorneys 
out  here  rob  us  of  everything  and  politely  al 
low  us  to  keep  the  balance. 

My  abode  of  virtue  is  rilled  with  furniture 
from  the  vintage  of  the  early  forties  and  I  sit 
in  it  alone  and  am  so  pathetically  good,  that  I 
am  begining  to  suspect  myself. 

You  know  I  was  born  when  I  was  very 
young  and  have  been  desperately  tidy  about 
my  morals  ever  since,  but  for  fear  of  stumb 
ling  just  because  I'm  so  bored  I  have  en 
trenched  myself  behind  a  maddening  routine 
Six  months  here  ought  to  put  ballast  into  the 
brain  of  the  silliest. 

19 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

I  think  that  marriage  has  become  a  social 
atrophy,  and  I  never  want  to  be  guilty  of  ir 
revocably  skewering  two  hearts  together. 

I  fear  myself  only  when  I'm  bored.  Eve 
never  would  have  flirted  with  the  snake  if 
Adam  hadn't  got  on  her  nerves.  I  always 
could  resist  everything  but  temptation. 

Bern  once  told  me  that  every  married  man 
ought  to  be  made  to  run  after  his  wife.  And 
I  told  him  he'd  be  out  of  breath  most  of  the 
time  if  he  tied  up  with  me. 

I  went  to  church  Sunday  and  the  funny 
man  at  the  head  of  the  table  said  he  was  going 
round  to  view  the  ruins  in  the  afternoon. 
Father  Time,  who  sits  opposite  me  and  mows 
down  the  food  said,  "Every  stylish  woman  I 
see,  I  know  she's  getting  a  divorce  and  I  can't 
understand  it,  as  most  of  them  are  good  look- 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

ing."  I  answered  "You  didn't  see  the  other 
half." 

I  am  not  going  to  correspond  with  Bern  as 
our  mail  might  be  intercepted.  For  although 
I'm  passing  through  the  mournful  ceremony 
of  losing  my  husband  in  South  Dakota,  I 
don't  want  to  gather  too  much  dust  on  my 
skirts  on  the  way  to  the  funeral.  We  send 
each  other  registered  letters  every  day — but 
that's  different — nobody  could  possibly  get 
those. 

There  is  a  woman  here  who  does  a  queer, 
pretty  sort  of  embroidery.  And  she  said  this 
morning  with  unquenchable  urbanity,  "I  will 
learn  you  how  to  do  shadow  work."  Now 
Bern  and  I  have  been  busy  on  all  sorts  of 
shadow  work  for  the  past  four  years  in  New 
York,  but  this  is  a  different  pattern.  Sioux 
Falls  is  plethoric  of  widows  and  when  one 
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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

is  freed,  the  other  convicts  writhe  under  the 
burden  of  their  stripes.  Dearie,  won't  you 
drop  in  and  try  to  quiet  my  dressmaker?  She 
is  beginning  to  show  evidences  of  dissatis 
faction — inscrutable  sign-manual  of  finances 
at  low  tide.  I'm  not  rich  but  I'm  sweet  and 
clean — did  I  hear  two  dollars  and  a  dish  of 
cherries  ? 

I  have  bought  a  calendar  with  the  dates  on 
a  block  of  pages — one  page  for  each  day,  just 
for  the  joy  of  tearing  them  off  with  a  vim 
every  twenty-four  hours.  Sometimes  I  allow 
two  days  to  pass,  then  I  do  a  war  dance  like 
a  Sioux,  wild  at  the  opportunity  of  pulling  off 
a  couple  at  a  time. 

There  is  a  N.  Y.  Central  time  table  on  my 
desk  and  I  am  eternally  looking  up  train  con 
nections  until  I  feel  like  a  bureau  of  informa 
tion.  I  have  enough  money  to  get  back  on, 

22 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

tucked  away  in  my  stocking.  And  if  I  have 
to  take  in  washing  I  won't  touch  it.  Funds 
are  getting  very  low  so  I've  started  writing 
short  stories  again  but  "like"  usual,  publishers 
don't  seem  to  recognize  a  genius  and  my  P.  O. 
box  is  always  filled  with  long  yellow  come 
backs — slip  enclosed  "Sorry  we  find  your  valu 
able  Mss.  unavailable  for  our  publication, 
etc."  However,  nothing  beats  trying  but  fail 
ure.  And  although  everything  on  this  mud 
ball  looks  inky,  and  I  am  once  more  Past 
Grand  Master  of  Hoodoo  Philosophy,  I  shall 
grit  my  teeth  and  push  ahead  as  I  have  done 
a  thousand  times  before.  My  debts  are  grow 
ing  like  a  snow  ball  and  although  I  am  not 
entirely  broke,  I  am  so  badly  bent  that  it 
ceases  to  be  funny.  There  isn't  a  blooded 
dog  here  except  the  ones  we  Easterners 
bring.  The  Sioux  Falls  dogs  are  like  the 
23 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

people— you  can't  tell  exactly  what  breed 
they  are,  but  as  a  few  of  the  N.  Y.  lawyers 
and  doctors  and  a  few  of  the  N.  Y.  dogs  have 
remained  here,  we  hope  for  a  better  blending 
in  the  next  litter. 

There  is  an  Englishman  here  who  calls  him 
self  "Chappie"  but  "Baw  Jove"  he  never  saw 
the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic  if  I  am  any 
judge.  But  you  can  hand  these  people  any 
sort  of  pill  and  they'll  swallow  it  without 
making  a  face.  We  have  no  indigestible 
pleasures  here,  but  the  food.  I  am  suffering 
from  gastric  nostalgia.  I  was  so  hungry 
for  something  sharp  and  sour  last  night  that 
I  bought  a  bottle  of  horse-radish  and  ate  it 
in  cold  blood.  Today  my  digestive  apparatus 
is  slumped  and  I  feel  like  the  ragged  edge 
of  a  misspent  career. 

Every  night  the  man  in  the  next  room, 
24 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

treats  himself  to  a  skin  full  and  comes  home 
so  pleasantly  lit  up  that  he  has  to  be  put  to 
bed.  Last  night  he  must  have  drunk  like  the 
sands  of  the  desert,  for  he  was  a  bit  more 
tipsy  than  ever  and  flung  apologies  and 
hiccoughs  over  my  transom. 

I  look  back  upon  my  old  life  as  an  impres 
sion  received  in  the  dawn,  and  already  it 
seems  but  a  level  highroad  on  a  gray  day. 
Marriage  laws  were  made  by  old  maids — 
any  ona  can  see  that.  And  they  have  decreed 
that  conjugal  love,  apart  from  passion,  is  ele 
vating  and  a  woman  in  yielding  herself  may 
evict  the  sanctum  of  love  if  the  man  may 
legally  call  her  his  own.  It's  all  wrong  dear — 
woman  has  been  sacrificed  to  the  family.  And 
what  a  degrading  imitation  of  Nature  to  pro 
pagate  the  species.  How  glorious  never  again 
to  be  shod  in  the  slippers  of  matrimony — I 

25 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

seem  to  demand  the  advantages  of  marriage 
with  none  of  the  drawbacks. 

To  return  to  things  less  serious,  Othello 
hates  something  about  my  new  combination 
lingerie  and  barks  like  fury  when  I  put  it  on — 
maybe  it  is  the  blue  ribbon — I'll  try  a  dash  of 
lavender  tomorrow. 

You  will  agree  that  my  geistes  ab  vesend 
has  reached  an  alarming  degree  when  I  tell 
you  that  this  A.  M.  after  my  tub,  I  liberally 
dashed  tooth  powder  all  over  my  body  instead 
of  talcum. 

My  affection  is  all  for  you — for  the  oppo 
site  sex  it  seems  to  have  grown  as  cold  as 
a  raked-out  oven. 

Goodnight, 
MARIANNE. 


26 


September  21. 

Most  Precious  Lorna: 

I  am  excited — excited — from  the  bottom  lift 
on  my  French  heels  to  the  top  hair  on  my 
golden  puffs. 

Now  who  would  have  thought  that  the 
"Fate  Sisters"  would  discover  me  way  out 
here  and  sit  on  the  corner  of  Minnesota  and 
I2th  spinning  their  breakable  yarn. 

Well — well — yesterday  the  one  with  the 
weary  look  and  the  crooked  nose,  got  a  knot 
in  her  twine  and  this  is  how  it  happened. 
I  was  crossing  this  Minnie-something  street, 
when  a  shrill  siren  and  the  cannonade  of  a 
powerful  exhaust  warned  me  to  stay  my  toot 
sies.  I  wasn't  looking  for  a  big  white  aseptic 
machine  out  here  or  any  other  kind,  so  the 

21 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

blooming  thing  crashed  into  us  and  rather 
than  have  Bunky  hurt,  I  ran  the  risk  (not 
quite,  but  nearly)  of  losing  my  life,  but  not 
until  I  had  assured  myself  that  the  man  at 
the  wheel  was  exotic  to  this  soil. 

Zip-bang-gasoline-smoke!  and  I  was  fished 
out,  laid  tenderly  on  the  back  seat  and  rushed 
to  a  druggery.  I  allowed  the  dramatic  spirits 
of  pneumonia  to  be  forced  down  my  throat 
by  his  manicured  hands  and  somehow  I  could 
n't  find  the  courage  to  take  my  head  away 
from  his  shoulder — it  was  such  a  comfy,  tail 
ored  Fifth  Avenue  shoulder.  You  know  my 
reputation — 30  years  in  a  circus  and  never 
lost  a  spangle. 

What  is  it  that  the  Christian  Scientists  have 
on  their  souvenir  spoons:  "There  is  no  life 
in  matter?" — well  old  girl  I  can  sign  a  testi 
monial   to   the   opposite.     Poor  little   Bunky 
28 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

added  one  more  knot  to  his  tail  during  the 
mix-up,  but  as  every  knot  is  worth  twenty- 
four  dollars  on  a  French  bull  pup's  tail,  I 
don't  mind  this  acquisition. 

I  was  asked  the  other  day  if  Bunk  was  a 
Pomeranian  and  I  said,  "No,  a  French  bull 
pup."  The  woman  answered,  "That's  the 
same  thing,  isn't  it?" 

Finally  with  a  little  home-made  sob  I  opened 
my  eyes  and  asked  the  same  question  that 
Eve  put  to  Adam  the  morning  after  God  had 
presented  him  with  that  poisonous  bon-bon. 
"Where  am  I?"  and  it's  none  of  your  in 
quisitive  business  what  he  answered.  The 
white  auto  will  call  tonight  to  see  of  I'm  still 
living  and  meantime  I  have  ordered  fifty 
yards  of  white  dabby  stuff  from  "Fantles"  to 
keep  busy  on.  No — not  a  trousseau — I  shall 
never — never  marry  again — I'm  too  full  of 

experience. 

29 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

I  told  the  white  auto  that  I  had  been 
hemmed  in  so  long  that  I  did  not  know  how 
to  act  in  decent  society  any  more  and  he  said 
he's  the  best  hem-ripper  that  ever  lived,  so  I 
think  I'll  take  a  chance.  Isn't  there  a  great 
difference  in  men,  dear?  But,  in  husbands — 
they  vary  only  in  the  color  of  their  hair. 

I'm  so  glad  motors  stand  without  hitching. 
Now  you'll  say  "Can't  you  leave  men  alone 
for  six  months?"  Sometimes  my  conscience 
does  get  feverish  and  bothers  me,  but  it's  so 
seldom  that  I  am  grateful  for  the  change  as  it 
acts  as  a  stimulation  to  my  gray  matter — 
whatever  that  is. 

My  honest  intentions  were  to  leave  off  my 
puffs  and  artificials  while  here,  just  to  give 
Nature  a  chance,  but  now  that  I  have  been 
run  over  by  an  auto  I  consider  the  plan  inad 
visable. 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

There  are  dandy  golf  links  here  but  they 
don't  allow  "Divorsays"  on  the  ground.  The 
Sioux  Falls  women,  (cats  for  short)  had  it 
stopped  three  years  ago,  because  they  were 
all  neglected  when  any  number  of  my  tribe 
appeared. 

Not  a  soul  knows  what  I'm  here  for.  One 
must  never  tell.  That's  the  first  divorce  col 
ony  by-law.  I  have  become  a  perfect  diplo 
mat  and  know  how  to  keep  still  in  three 
languages.  I  just  casually  told  my  troubles 
to  the  boarding  house  keeper  and  her  daugh 
ters,  but  they  don't  count,  as  they  are  such 
dears,  and  it  won't  go  any  further. 

As  long  as  I  live,  my  attorney  says,  I  must 
sign  in  hotel  registers  from  Sioux  Falls — If 
I  do  the  clerks  will  stoop  to  pick  cockle  burrs 
and  tumble  weeds  off  my  skirts  and  help  me 
to  loosen  my  Indian  wampum — whatever  that 
is. 

31 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

Father  Time,  whom  I  mentioned  in  my 
last  and  who  possesses  as  much  energy  for 
getting  divorces  (this  being  his  third  time  on 
earth)  as  Roosevelt  exhibits  in  the  Baby  mar 
ket,  has  taken  to  peddling  "The  Ladies  Home 
Journal,"  and  the  "Saturday  Evening  Post/' 
and  if  you  only  knew  how  cunning  he  looks 
with  his  abbreviated  coat  and  short,quick,  lit 
tle  steps,  you  would  give  a  dollar  for  a  picture 
of  him  to  paste  in  your  book  of  curiosities  of 
the  world. 

Court  was  in  session  last  week  and  all  sorts 
of  real  Indians  paraded  the  streets.  They 
weren't  like  our  dear  old  Irish  Indians  on 
Manhattan  Island,  who  perambulate  inside 
little  houses  placarded  with  one  night  corn 
cures;  these  were  the  real  article  and  their 
wives  walked  behind,  just  like  New  York 
wives,  carrying  an  orphan  asylum  on  their 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

backs  and  provisions  for  the  week  on  their 
hips. 

Poor  down  trodden  creatures.  I  feel  like 
organizing  a  class  to  show  them  how  to  mar- 
celle  their  mops  and  "straight  front"  their 
stomachs.  A  tommyhawk  for  me  and  no  mop 
to  marcelle  if  I  try  to  revolutionize  Indian- 
dom. 

Last  night  at  a  wonderful  performance  of 
Fiske  in  "Rosmerholm,"  the  house  was  packed 
with  Indians  and  in  the  ghostly  part  where 
everybody  throws  himself  into  the  mill-stream, 
Squaw  Sloppy-Closey  and  Chief  Many-Licey 
opened  soda  pop  and  passed  it  to  each  other 
for  a  drink  out  of  the  same  bottle.  Poor 
Fiske  was  horrified  and  threatened  to  stop 
the  performance  if  the  soda  pop  artillery 
didn't  cease  its  bombarding. 

The  wind  tears  around  the  corner  of  my 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

room  on  the  bias  and  the  cats  keep  up  a  Thom 
as  Concert  beneath  my  windows  all  night  long. 
No  wonder  I  have  nightmares.  Last  night 
I  dreamed  that  I  was  a  saint  with  an  apple 
pie  for  a  halo — this  boarding  house  pie  habit 
will  eventually  tell  on  the  strongest  nerves. 

Last  night  I  cut  my  leg  on  a  barbed  wire — 
no  dear  I  wasn't  hurdling  the  fence — the  wire 
was  on  the  side  walk,  where  everything  ex 
cept  the  kitchen  stove  usually  lies.  I  hope 
I  won't  have  lockjaw — it's  harder  on  a  wo 
man  than  it  is  on  a  man  anytime.  I  was  just 
thinking  how  clever  it  would  be,  if  a  man 
who  had  a  chattering  wife,  would  keep  a 
bunch  of  rusty  pins  on  hand. 

I  sat  down  to  the  piano  this  morning  and 
ran  through  that  pyrotechnical  Solfigetto  by 
the  other  Bach,  and  Father  Time,  who  sat  en 
chanted,  said,  "You  and  the  piano  has  met 

34 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

before."    It's  a  shame  to  cheat  the  aged. 

Thank  heaven  that  the  sunshine  is  free  and 
that  the  florist's  window  is  gratis  to  look  at, 
otherwise  on  my  slender  means  I  should  have 
to  take  advantage  of  the  bankrupt  law. 

My  old  friend  Insomnia  again  stands  in 
cessantly  at  the  foot  of  my  bed  and  bids  me 
corner  the  sunrise  market.  A  heavy  heart  is 
mine  tonight  and  though  I  try  to  fancy  beau 
tiful  pictures  in  the  crystal  ball  of  the  future, 
I  grow  sick  with  anticipation  as  the  visions 
fall  away  before  they  are  half  formed,  leaving 
me  melancholy  and  wondering  if  there  is  an 
angel  somewhere  who  collects  the  sighs  of 
such  ever-repressed  feeling. 

Goodnight, 
MARIANNE. 


35 


October  5. 
Lorna  Dear: 

Well,  Lorna,  you  and  I  were  "all  day  suck 
ers"  to  believe  that  Mrs.  Phyllis  Lathrop  was 
touring  California;  I  bumped  plump  into  her 
yesterday  in  front  of  the  poor-house.  No, 
dear,  I  did  not  go  there  to  stay,  merely  to 
visit.  Phyllis  is  nice  in  her  red-headed  way 
and  looked  very  fresh  and  sweet  with  the 
lower  part  of  her  face  lost  in  a  tulle  abyss. 
She  lives  just  a  whisper  away  from  me — so 
strange  I  haven't  seen  her  before.  She's  trot 
ting  around  with  a  Sioux  Falls  fellow  who 
looks  like  a  Dutch  luncheon  favor.  Every 
time  he  lifts  his  hat  I  look  for  bon-bons  to 
drop  out.  Says  she  must  be  loving  someone 
all  the  time,  even  if  she  is  considered  in  the 

36 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

light  of  an  accommodation  train.  She's  the 
unfinished  sort  of  a  woman  who  carries  her 
beauty  around  in  little  tubes  and  seems  so  used 
to  audiences  that  I  always  feel  that  she  must 
have  sung  between  the  acts. 

Town  Topics  said  something  about  "The 
soft  breezes  of  California  restoring  the  bloom 
to  Phyllis'  cheeks"— to  think  that  T.  Ts  got 
fogged  in  the  matter  is  consoling  to  such  les 
ser  lights  as  you  and  I.  You  can  take  it 
from  me,  "the  soft  breezes  of  California"  are 
blowing  into  her  room  in  a  nearby  Sioux  Falls 
boarding  house,  but  instead  of  being  laden 
with  the  scent  of  flowers  they  are  redolent  of 
hash  from  the  cookery.  I'll  take  off  my  hat 
to  her.  She  was  a  slick  duck.  Of  course  she 
denied  nothing  to  me — her  time  is  up  soon; 
then  she  will  lay  her  history  before  the  Judge, 
who  is  always  busy  picking  hairs  from  his 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

coat  and  doing  other  things  of  vital  import 
while  you  pour  out  your  heart's  woes. 

The  fellow  whose  motor  sent  me  to  the 
brink  of  the  Styx,  is  now  preparing  me  by 
night  light  to  take  the  33d  degree  of  happiness. 
You  have  heard  of  him  I  know,  Carlton  Som- 
erville,  the  Wall  Street  broker.  I  forget  what 
it  was  his  wife  did  that  got  on  his  nerves, 
but  anyway  he  too  is  hibernating  in  Sioux 
Falls  clay.  We  have  gotten  "First-namey" 
and  have  frankly  decided  that  in  order  to 
keep  our  cleverness  from  dying  of  inanition, 
we  will  practice  on  each  other. 

How  could  you,  my  dearest  friend,  accuse 
me  of  being  forgetful  of  Bern?  He  wouldn't 
appreciate  me  at  all  if  I  forgot  how.  And 
really  six  months  of  non-practice  would  be 
ruination. 

Carlton  has  fallen  in  love  over  his  depth 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

with  that  beefy  Mrs.  Claymore  and  takes  me 
motoring  to  pour  his  love  (of  her)  into  my 
aural  labyrinths.  I  don't  object  to  playing 
second  fiddle,  but  when  it  comes  to  holding 
the  triangle  for  the  drummer,  I  pass  blind. 
Never  mind,  while  he  isn't  watching  some 
day  he'll  get  stung,  for  I'm  really  fond  of 
him.  You  say  that  you  are  so  much  stronger 
willed  than  I  am — did  you  ever  look  at  your 
self  in  the  mirror?  Carlton  has  eyes  that  I 
adore — they  are  the  deeply  sad  sort  that  would 
make  one  think  that  love  had  passed  that  way. 
If  it  really  hasn't,  he  might  as  well  begin  to 
put  up  the  grand  stand  and  have  the  tickets 
printed.  My  dear,  I'd  never  marry  another 
man  with  a  memory — most  inconvenient  asset 
that  a  husband  can  possess. 

"Chappie,"  the  Englishman,  has  started  a 
society  paper — sort  of  six  months  gestation  of 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

Town  Topics,  so  Carlton  and  I  are  batting 
around  after  midnight,  so  "we  won't  become 
saw."  There  are  all  sorts  of  ways  to  make  a 
bee  buzz.  Do  keep  Bern  from  wearing  red 
ties  while  I'm  gone  and  give  him  a  shove 
along  the  straight  and  narrow,  once  and  so 
often. 

After  a  month  and  a  half  of  drinking  Sioux 
Falls  water,  I  would  bring  a  higher  price  as  a 
lime  kiln  than  I  would  in  the  woman  market. 
One's  pelt  gets  wind  tanned  and  such  a  thing 
as  a  daintily  flushed  face  is  as  unlooked  for 
out  here  as  consideration  from  the  natives. 

My  head  ached  so  yesterday  that  I  called 
on  a  doctor,  ''Visit  including  all  medicine,  one 
dollar."  Isn't  it  "patetic?"  He  raved  about 
the  climate  and  said  he  brought  his  wife  here 
with  T.  B.,  and  she  improved  so  much.  Nat 
urally  I  asked,  "How  is  she  now?"  He  said, 
40 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

"O,  she's  dead."  Don't  blame  him  for  raving 
about  the  climate,  do  you? 

My  dear  it  is  worth  a  trip  out  here  to  see 
a  whist  party  "let  out."  No,  not  "bridge,"— 
they  haven't  heard  of  it  yet — just  plain  whist; 
but  as  I  was  saying,  to  see  one  turn  out  with 
its  white  alpaca  skirt  and  blue  satin  ribbon 
belt.  I've  paid  two  dollars  at  Hammerstein's 
to  see  things  not  half  so  funny.  O,  for  a  sip 
of  Fleischman's  coffee — there  are  grounds  for 
divorce  in  every  cup  out  here.  The  butter  we 
eat,  walks  in  from  the  country  alone,  and  at 
every  meal  we  get  smashed  potatoes  piled  as 
high  as  the  snow  on  the  Alps.  I  can't  look  a 
potato  in  the  eye  any  more. 

There  is  a  couple  here  on  business  from 
Michigan, — a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jones,  odd  name 
that.  Isn't  it  sad  that  they  are  so  happily 
married,  they  might  both  be  getting  divorces, 

41 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

but  as  it  is  they  are  simply  wasting  a  year  out 
here  for  nothing.  I  passed  the  Judge  on  the 
street  this  morning  and  I  was  so  nervous  that 
I  walked  bow-legged.  But  thanks  to  skirts 
et  cetera-et  cetera. 

I  have  sampled  all  the  churches  and  have 
finally  landed  at  the  Christian  Science  house 
of  worship,  as  I  would  rather  any  day  hear 
a  pianola  grind  out  its  papier  mache  music 
than  listen  to  a  poor  performer. 

If  I  had  Carnegie's  millions,  I'd  go 
straight  to  Chicago,  buy  a  big,  fat,  thick, 
be*ef  steak,  step  into  the  middle  of  it  and 
eat  my  way  out.  I'm  hungry,  hungry.  I 
worry  down  the  "dope"  that  they  deal  out  in 
the  dining  room,  then  go  back  to  my  sanc 
tum  and  finish  on  limey  water  and  crack- 
nells — you  know  what  they  are,  a  powdery 
sort  of  counterfeit  cake  that  chokes  you  to 

42 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

death  if  you  happen  to  breathe  while  you're 
chewing  it. 

Last  night  while  trying  to  cut  some 
stringy  roast  beef  and  still  retain  my  dig 
nity,  the  man  with  the  red  tie  said:  "Put 
your  other  foot  on  it."  I'm  afraid  if  I  don't 
eat  potatoes  again,  my  stomach  will  shrivel 
so  that  I  will  never  be  able  to  sit  through  a 
course  dinner  when  I  get  back.  Potatoes 
distend  it  all  right — I  feel  like  I  have  swal 
lowed  one  wing  of  Fleischman's  yeast  fac 
tory  whenever  I  eat  them.  You  have  to 
come  down  on  the  meat  with  such  force  to 
make  any  impression  on  it,  that  more  gets 
pushed  up  between  your  teeth  than  goes 
down  your  alimentary  canal;  then  you  spend 
the  balance  of  the  night  squandering  Japan 
ese  dental  floss.  I  unconciously  finish  my 
prayers  with  "Lord  preserve  us  from  the 

43 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

holy  trinity  of  roast  beef,  roast  mutton  and 
roast  pork." 

You  can  recognise  one  of  the  clan  in  a 
moment  by  what  is  known  as  the  "Divor- 
say  jaw."  No  feek  and  weeble  expression 
on  our  faces  but  "Do  or  die"  is  the  look  we 
have  in  our  optics. 

Every  time  I  go  to  church  I  vow  I'll  never 
go  again.  The  organ  is  asthmatic  and  the 
wheezing  gets  on  my  gray  matter. 

The  Judge  has  begun  to  wear  a  fur  coat — 
Dakota  cow  fur,  I  think,  and  he  looks  for 
all  the  world  like  a  turkey  gobbler  in  distress. 

I  sleep  on  what  they  call  here  a  "sanitary 
couch."  Can't  fathom  the  mystery  of  the 
name,  for  mine  is  so  chucked  with  dust  that 
I  dream  I'm  in  a  sand  storm  crossing  the 
Sahara,  and  when  I  awaken  my  sympathies 
are  keen  with  the  camel. 

44 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

There's  a  new  boarder  here  whose  face 
looks  like  a  chapel  and  every  time  she  opens 
her  mouth  you're  afraid  it's  going  to  be  the 
Lord's  Prayer.  She  wears  a  wide  ruching 
which  makes  her  look  excited;  distributes 
tracts,  and  can't  see  a  joke.  She  says  she's 
Miss  and  leaves  envelopes  around  with 
"Mrs."  written  on  them  in  red  ink — modest 
writing  fluid  I've  always  considered  it. 

Will  you  buy  me  some  new  puffs?  Mine 
are  all  ratty  and  I  feel  bare-footed  without 
them.  Enclosed  is  a  clipping  from  my  hair. 
Read  it  carefully.  False  hair  is  no  crime 
as  long  as  it  matches — like  that  German 
song  that  says  "Kissing  is  no  sin  with  a 
pretty  woman." 

Have  you  caught  "Three  Weeks"  yet? 
I  had  a  violent  attack  a  few  days  ago. 
Cured  it  with  a  small  dose  of  Christian 

45 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

Science  before  meals  and  some  of  Bunyan's 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  which  I  shook  well 
after  using. 

You  can  imagine  what  disastrous  effect 
Eleanor  Glynn's  book  had  on  the  "Divorce 
Colony."  We  all  bunched  together  and 
said  "What's  the  use,"  and  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  the  old  man  who  eats  his  soup  out  loud, 
we  would  have  bolted  in  a  mass  to  suggest 
"Free  Love"  to  our  respective  "Fiascos" — 
Dakota's  past  tense  for  "Fiance." 

I  long  so  to  flash  my  calciums  on  a  Fifth 
Ave.  stroller  that  I'd  flirt  with  God  if  I 
met  him. 

I  close  dear  with  a  sigh  over  my  chin, 
which  is  getting  triple  (an  invention  of  the 
devil). 

Auf  wiedersehen, 

MARIANNE. 

46 


*     October  25. 
My  Dear: 

I've  changed  lodgings  and  before  I  took 
the  new  chambers,  I  inquired  of  the  land 
lady  if  there  was  any  electricity  in  the 
house  and  she  answered  "Yes,"  so  today  I 
asked  here  where  it  was,  and  she  pointed  to 
the  telephone.  O,  me !  O,  my !  this  life  is 
wearing  me  to  a  fraz ! 

Last  week  the  autumn  leaves  fell  and  in 
order  to  show  Mrs.  Judge  how  simple  and 
near  to  nature  I  live,  I  raked  their  lawn, 
and  ours,  clean,  and  stood  long  after  dark 
making  huge  bonfires  on  a  line  with  the 
sidewalk.  But  lo!  the  fleas  that  were  of  the 
earth  became  the  fleas  of  me  and  I  have  oc 
cupied  most  of  my  time  since  scratching. 
47 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

But  anything  to  pass  the  hours  away. 

Our  hedges  are  cut  for  the  last  time  this 
fall,  and  look  as  though  they  are  fresh  from 
the  barber.  Isn't  that  phrase  "for  the  last 
time"  the  most  desolate  utterance  that  a 
human  voice  can  make?  It  goes  thunder 
ing  down  the  aisles  of  time  only  to  be  lost 
in  the  arcana  of  treacherous  memory.  To 
dream  for  the  last  time — to  love  for  the  last 
time — bitter  contemplation — funereal  intro 
spection. 

I  am  suffering  from  acute  nostalgia — by 
this  time  you  are  standing  in  the  gun-room 
at  Keith  Lodge,  drinking  your  first.  I  can 
hear  Duncan  ask:  "Scotch  or  Irish,"  and 
see  you  tip  it  off  with  Blake  and  the  rest. 
No  bridge  for  you  tonight — early  to  bed  and 
tomorrow  morning  you'll  all  start  out  in 
your  natty  knickers  and  short  kilts  to  mur- 

48 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

der  things  that  will  fall  in  bloody  feathery 
heaps  at  your  feet.  Native  woodcock,  jack 
snipe,  black  mallard,  grouse,  etc.,  the  rest 
less  eager  setters  doing  their  own  retriev 
ing;  the  soft  dank  ground  daintily  over 
spread  with  the  frond  of  marvelous  fern  like 
my  window  pane  this  morning  with  its  deli 
cate  tracery  in  frost;  the  tall-stemmed 
alders  echoing  your  shots  to  skyward ;  the  big 
dense  timber  with  its  springy  ground  all 
saturated  with  the  fragrance  of  the  mount 
ing  sea:  I  seem  like  something  dead  whis 
pering  to  you  from  the  tomb.  Nothing  lasts 
longer  than  twenty-four  hours  in  New  York 
— not  even  a  memory,  so  no  one  misses  me. 
It's  another  of  God's  jollies  and  I  know 
I'm  ungrateful  dear,  for  you  are  thinking 
of  me  I  know,  with  my  dear  old  "Sport" 
ready  to  point  for  you  tomorrow,  just  to 

49 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

receive  your  pats  of  recognition  and  thanks. 
My  feelings  are  worn  into  meaningless 
smoothness  like  the  head  on  an  old  coin, 
and  because  I  have  added  my  quota  of  ab 
surdity  to  the  morning  papers  I  am  no 
longer  interesting.  But,  pshaw!  one  can't 
buy  cocaine  for  a  nickel,  and  as  I  could  live 
extravagantly  on  the  interest  of  my  debts, 
I  haven't  more  than  five  cents  to  invest. 

Don't  mind  this  slump  in  grit — it  will 
return  to  par  and  slang  tomorrow.  Keep  a 
record  of  all  you  do  to  send  to  me,  and 
above  all — win  the  cup.  With  whom  are 
you  shooting? 

I  will  now  stuff  the  cracks  of  my  door 
with  medicated  cotton,  open  the  portholes 
and  smoke  my  cigarette  alone — Lord  pre 
serve  me,  if  anybody  knew !  See  if  you  can't 
get  the  Humane  Society  to  form  a  branch 

50 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

out  here  to  feed  and  water  the  widows. 

I  have  just  returned  from  a  little  walk 
with  Carlton — I  suppose  my  eyes  prattled, 
for  he  smiled  at  me  through  his  wrinkles 
and  was  rather  more  thoughtful  of  my  com 
forts  than  usual.  His  Insouciance  is  charm 
ing  and  always  turns  the  tide  of  my  melan 
choly.  He  is  the  only  man  who  ever  ven 
tured  to  stand  on  my  tack  and  take  me 
broadsides.  We  have  framed  up  a  little 
Bacchic  plot  to  be  enacted  on  our  way  back 
from  the  Post  where  I  shall  soon  meander 
to  mail  this  on  the  late  Rock  Island. 

I  am  certainly  in  love,  because  I  know  the 
symptoms,  but  I  can't  tell  with  whom, 
some  temperature,  high  pulse  and  strange 
flutterings — but  who  is  the  victim?  Bern 
or  Howard  in  New  York  or  Carlton  here? 
The  thought  of  all  of  them  stirs  me,  so  how 

51 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

am  I  to  know  which  is  in  the  lead?  Hope 
the  period  of  incubation  will  soon  be  over 
and  the  blooming  thing  assert  itself.  I  have 
often  been  vaccinated  and  the  thing  always 
takes,  but  still  I  am  not  immune  and  never 
will  be  until  I  am  six  feet  under,  even  if  I 
live  to  be  an  hundred  years  old!  Did  you 
catch  the  an?  But  it's  disgusting  not  to 
know  whether  it  is  the  measles  or  some 
thing  worse,  however  I  am  taking  all  pre 
cautions  and  awaiting  developments. 

I  often  wonder  what  I'll  do  with  my  de 
cree  when  I  get  it — I  can't  wear  it  on 
my  finger,  and  it  certainly  isn't  the  thing 
for  gold  leaf  and  a  shadow  box — Oh!  I 
shan't  waste  time  placing  it;  perhaps  Carl- 
ton  will  find  a  pigeon-hole  for  it  somewhere. 

I  haven't  written  to  Bern  in  days,  but  I 
don't  care;  I  never  considered  a  banker  as 

52 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

one  of  the  human  race,  anyway.  Poor 
Bern;  he's  thrown  out  like  a  bill  in  Parlia 
ment!  Beaten  by  a  blackball  called  Carl- 
ton — I'd  hate  to  see  him  now.  Roland  the 
Furious  is  charming  in  a  poem,  but  in  a 
drawing  room,  prosaic  and  expensive. 

Carlton  and  I  went  to  church  Sunday 
and  were  refused  communion — the  dear 
good  Bishop  has  but  one  eye,  so  he  sees 
things  half  way.  I  said:  "If  this  is  God's 
table,  I  want  communion,  if  it's  the  Episco 
pal,  I  don't."  In  his  sermon  he  called  divor 
cees  "social  lepers,  social  filthiness,"  and 
said:  "After  the  new  law  goes  into  effect, 
we'll  have  no  more  dumping  here."  He's 
an  old  pop-gun  that  shoots  spit-balls,  so 
the  wounds  he  makes  are  not  fatal.  Carl- 
ton  refuses  to  go  to  church  here  or  any 
where  else  again,  and  will  once  more  trudge 

53 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

along  his  Sunday  field  of  Bacchus  cultivated 
by  Venus. 

By  the  way,  after  June  1st,  all  divorcees 
will  be  required  to  stay  one  year,  then  they 
won't  come  at  all.  Oklahoma  had  a  hunch 
and  changed  her  law  back  to  three  months. 
Now  the  colony  will  transplant  itself,  then 
watch  the  death  agony  of  Sioux  Falls.  She's 
foolish — foolish !  The  Easterners  have  made 
this  burg  what  it  is.  Take  away  our  influ 
ence  and  she'll  sink  into  nothingness  again. 
Some  of  us  are  bad,  but  all  of  us  are  not; 
however,  the  Sioux  Falls  gossips  make  no 
distinction.  They  lift  their  $2.98  skirts 
when  they  pass  us,  for  fear  of  inoculation 
by  the  bacillus  divorce.  I  often  wonder  if 
they  realize  that  the  prejudice  is  returned 
with  compound  interest. 

When  any  new  gossip  is  born,  they  fly 

54 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

around  the  streets  like  the  beads  of  a  rosary 
when  the  string  is  snapped.  Perhaps  you 
haven't  noticed  how  serious  this  letter  is. 
I'm  frowning  as  I  write — a  habit  most  bad 
on  the  eyebrows — surest  of  signs  that  I  am 
sinking  again  into  the  quagmire  of  love. 

I  have  felt  my  pulse  so  often  and  know  all 
the  symptoms — which  I  more  than  enjoy 
scrutinizing — not  even  the  finest  emotion 
escapes  me.  I  believe  that  I  play  the  game 
well  for  I  am  still  unjaded,  which  is  unusual 
with  so  much  over-feeding. 

Is  your  new  fur  coat  unborn  lamb,  or  did 
it  happen?  Speaking  of  possessions — my 
appendix  still  gives  me  ample  proof  of  its 
constancy.  The  blue  devils  are  chasing  me 
today  and  I  am  wearing  the  expression  that 
sits  on  the  lips  of  every  portrait  in  every 
exhibition.  I  smile  to  keep  from  crying, 

55 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

because  if  I  cry — I'm  lost! 

As  I  am  of  the  experienced  elite  of  soci 
ety  that  sups,  I  must  bid  you  adieu — I 
promise  more  jocosity  in  my  next. 

Affy, 
MARIANNE. 


56 


December  i. 

Since  writing  you  I  have  heard  the  turkey 
gobbler  say  his  last  prayer  and  have  had  a 
coming  out  party  for  "Penny,"  short  for 
appendix.  The  receiving  party  was  com 
prised  of  two  eminent  surgeons,  two  trained 
nurses,  who  served  adhesive  plaster  and  in 
struments,  and  an  "etherist"  who  poured. 
Costumes  were  uniformly  white  with  great 
profusion  of  gauze  trimmings,  with  which 
I  also  eventually  became  somewhat  deco 
rated.  One  of  the  internes  wasn't  half  bad, 
so  I  kept  the  nurse  busy  combing  my 
adopted  hair  and  pinning  it  on  becomingly. 
It  is  a  much  quicker  and  easier  process  to 
have  your  appendix  cut  out  than  your  hus 
band. 

57 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

I  was  away  four  weeks  and  am  now  back 
in  Sioux  and  well  taken  care  of  by  my  land 
lady,  whose  hair  and  face  disagree  as  to  age. 
My  walls  are  hung  with  ten-cent  store  art, 
and  if  I  were  not  awfully  strong-minded  I 
could  not  overcome  the  effect. 

The  white  auto  called  last  night,  and  as 
my  head  rested  on  his  shoulder  our  conver 
sation  was  the  rambling  sort  that  may  be 
ticketed  "all  rights  reserved," ,  so  I  won't 
repeat  it  as  the  postmaster-general  would 
refuse  me  stamps  in  the  future  if  I  sent  it 
through  the  mail.  In  Chicago  they'd  take 
out  my  phone  if  I  squeaked  it  over  the 
wires.  Carlton  is  deeply  interested  in  some 
mines  out  here — spinach  mines  I  think.  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  something  last  night — 
I  am  determined  to  get  him  away  from  that 
carrotty  giraffe  whom  he  used  to  believe  he 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

loved.  If  in  my  convalescent  state  I  am 
unable  to  arouse  his  sympathy,  I'll  relapse 
into  white  muslin  emotions  and  thereby 
gain  my  end.  I  am  made  from  dust  and  the 
slightest  rustle  from  the  right  man's  coat 
can  blow  me  whithersoever  it  willeth.  You 
know  I  am  a  spoiled  child  who  has  had 
everything  it  wanted,  so  bon-bons  no  longer 
excite  me.  Carlton  is  so  thin  that  you  can 
see  daylight  through  his  lattice  work,  and 
cold  as  paving  stone  in  winter.  He's  a  real 
"millionery."  but  his  cash  is  40  degrees  be 
low,  so  I  am  determined  to  warm  up  his 
eagles  and  teach  them  to  fly.  I  am  going 
to  touch  that  cash  box  under  his  left  breast 
and  show  him  that  the  devil  has  a  sister. 
The  man  wants  bleeding — he  has  too  many 
bank  notes  in  his  veins.  He  seems  to  be 
toppling  so  I  might  as  well  register  him  in 

59 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

my  "Book  of  Mistakes." 

Do  you  know  that  I  still  keep  a  record  of 
these  undying  passions  of  mine  with  a  pic 
ture  of  each  culprit  attached,  and  Carlton 
is  999.  I  thought,  when  I  was  sixteen,  I 
would  record  the  one  divine  fire  that  was 
like  to  consume  me,  and  now  I  have  eigh 
teen  volumes  of  this  io5-degrees-in-the- 
shade  literature,  all  bound  alike  in  a  perfect 
edition  de  luxe.  I'd  rather  regret  what  I 
have  done  than  what  I  have  not  done.  You 
dear  old  ostrich,  I  can  hear  you  sigh  over 
me,  but  don't  you  waste  your  gasoline.  You, 
too,  should  have  callouses  on  your  emotions 
by  this  time. 

Bunky  and  Othello  have  both  decided  to 
bark  at  my  chemiselets  and  skirtlets  in  one, 
— maybe  they  think  they  are  too  flossy  to 
be  concealed.  I  agree  there. 

60 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

Phyllis  Lathop's  lawyer,  Mr.  Maryan  Soe 
Early,  got  her  decree  for  her  last  week  and 
she  flew  back  on  the  3.30  train  to  Manhat 
tan  and  Gordon  Booth.  Of  course  everyone 
knows  that  he  is  booked. 

Her  plea  was  extreme  cruelty;  said  her 
husband  struck  her.  The  dear  old  judge 
asked  her  to  explain  in  detail  some  of  the 
circumstances  of  her  husband's  brutality. 
She  said:  "While  crossing  Lake  Michigan 
there  was  a  terrible  storm  on,  and  as  my 
husband  was  descending  from  the  upper 
berth,  the  boat  lurched  and  he  struck  me 
with  his  elbow."  Phyllis  said  the  judge 
smiled  very  broadly  and  gave  her  her  decree 
on  "Extreme  Nerve,"  instead  of  "Extreme 
Cruelty." 

She  writes  that  she  and  Gordon  are  hav 
ing  such  times  together — batting  around 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

their  old  stamping  ground,  Bronx  Park 

strange  how  hard  it  is  to  overcome  habits. 
They  slink  off  to  the  New  York  woman's 
trysting  place  when  there  is  no  longer  any 
reason  for  secrecy.  One  bitter  cold  day 
last  winter  Bern  and  I  met  Phyllis  and  Gor 
don  in  the  very  spot  that  we  always  fre 
quented,  and  poor  individuals  were  stamp 
ing  their  feet  to  keep  them  from  freezing. 
The  monkey  house  was  full  of  people  and 
they  dared  not  remain  there  any  longer. 
We  all  smiled  as  much  as  to  say:  "You 
don't  tell,  and  I  certainly  won't."  Not  a 
word  ever  came  out,  so  the  treaty  was  well 
kept.  Bern  and  I  were  more  or  less  engaged 
at  the  time. 

We  laughed  over  it  when  she  was  out 
here,  and  I  asked  her  why  she  never  re 
peated  it,  as  she  never  keeps  anything  to 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

her  gossipy  self.  She  answered:  "If  I  had 
said  that  I  had  seen  you  there,  I  would  have 
had  to  explain  my  own  presence  in  the  park, 
and  I  never  incriminate  myself."  She  says 
that  "there  are  two  new  kinds  of  monkeys 
out  there  and  one  looks  like  Elbert  Hub- 
bard — sits  all  day  surrounded  by  his  hair." 
She's  running  a  bar  in  connection  with 
her  tea  table  now,  which  is  equivalent  to 
putting  salt  on  the  tail  of  the  social  male 
bird.  She  can  hardly  believe  that  she's  free, 
and  says  that  it  will  take  some  time  for  her 
to  realize  "that  there  aint  no  beast."  Isn't 
it  strange  that  the  most  fascinating  lover  in 
the  world  can  turn  into  the  veriest  beast 
within  six  months  after  he  has  hit  you  on 
the  head  and  dragged  you  senseless  into  his 
Fifth  Avenue  home?  Of  course  you're 
senseless  or  you  would  not  have  tied  up. 

63 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

Phyllis  says  that  she  has  gotten  out  of 
the  habit  of  decent  food,  that  every  time  she 
really  dines,  she  gets  strange  pains  in  her 
underneath.  I  wish  I  could  fly  back  home, 
but  I  must  grit  my  teeth  and  get  rid  of  my 
beast  too.  I  wonder  which  breed  I'll  try 
next  time.  Boston  Bull,  I  suppose,  I  think 
that's  where  Carlton  was  first  kenneled. 

I  have  a  large  stove  in  my  sitting-room 
and  keep  it  going  myself.  Othello  looks  as 
though  he'd  laugh  himself  to  death  every 
time  I  put  coal  on — darn  his  pelt!  He's 
crazy  over  Sioux  Falls — possibly  because 
there  are  seven  dogs  to  the  city  block.  He 
goes  away  on  bridal  tours  every  few  days 
and  then  I  have  to  get  out  a  search  warrant. 
I  could  live  quite  decently  if  I  did  not  have 
to  invest  in  so  many  rewards  for  him. 

It  is  so  terribly  cold  here  that  my  very 

64 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

thoughts  are  frozen  and  my  hot-water  bag 
does  nightly  service.  The  thing  sprung 
a  leak  last  week  and  I  took  it  to  a  garage  to 
ask  if  they  would  mend  it,  and  the  fellow 
answered :  "Certainly,  madam,  we  have 
quite  a  trade  in  hot-water  bottles  and  "na 
ture's  rivals."  I  have  also  found  out  that  the 
only  place  to  buy  burnt  wood  is  at  Mr.  Tre- 
paning's  the  undertaker  and  embalmer. 

All  the  stiff  and  crackling  branches  of  the 
trees  are  weighted  down  with  a  three-inch 
ruching  of  snow.  It  is  all  silently  fascinat 
ing,  especially  so  because  since  starting  this 
letter  two  short  raps  at  my  window  an 
nounce  Carlton  who  comes  each  night  to 
accompany  me  to  the  late  post  after  the 
landlady  is  snoozing.  His  arms  are  around 
me  as  I  scrawl,  and  the  thousand  tiny  little 
thrills  that  answer  so  eagerly  to  his  near- 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

ness  ,assure  me  that  it  is  not  deplorable  to 
be  thirty-nine. 

Good  night, 

MARIANNE. 


66 


December  20. 

So  near  Xmas,  dear,  yet  none  of  the  Yule- 
tide  joys  float  out  to  this  frozen  wilderness. 
Snow,  snow  everywhere.  The  tall  alders, 
whose  vivid  coloring  so  inspired  me  when 
I  arrived,  are  now  black  and  gaunt,  and  the 
pitiless  desert  wind  comes  tearing  and 
howling  from  the  north  to  bend  and  crack 
their  stiffened  joints.  I  often  wonder — am 
I  any  more  the  arbiter  of  my  fate  than  these 
lifeless  snow-draped  spectres  around  me. 

Carlton  left  the  hotel  almost  a  week  ago 
and  took  the  room  next  to  mine.  We  are 
hopelessly  in  love  with  each  other,  and  he 
wonders  how  he  ever  could  have  thought  of 
accepting  happiness  from  Mrs.  Claymore, 
accompanied  by  so  many  freckles  and  a  half 
million  dollars. 

67 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

As  for  Bern,  dear,  he  will  survive.  I  am 
much  older  than  he  is,  so  that  some  day  he 
would  be  forty  with  all  his  emotions  and  I 
would  be  fifty  with  the  rheumatism — it 
would  never  do.  Henceforth  I  shall  be 
prodigal  of  negatives,  except  where  Carlton 
is  concerned. 

We  have  attained  the  intimacy  which 
thinks  aloud,  and  instead  of  hating  Sioux 
Falls  and  longing  for  my  sentence  to  ex 
pire,  I  am  beginning  to  worship  every  inch 
of  the  ground,  and  only  pray  that  such  an 
exile  should  last  forever. 

None  of  the  fulminating  fires  that  I  have 
heretofore  known  are  mine — only  calm  and 
peace  and  the  joys  born  of  a  perfect  under 
standing.  We  have  not  let  the  moment  slip 
when  souls  meet  in  comprehension.  I  al 
most  decided  not  to  confide  all  this  to  you, 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

but  it  slipped  off  my  pen  and  I'm  not  sorry, 
for  no  woman  living  was  ever  before  blessed 
with  a  friend  like  you.  You  and  I  have  vis 
ited  the  lowest  Dantesque  circles  of  despair 
together,  and  no  confidence  between  us 
could  amount  to  an  indiscretion. 

Our  landlady  thinks  that  we  are  merely 
speaking  acquaintances,  and  it  is  best,  as 
this  new-found  sympathy  must  not  be  dis 
tilled  by  Sioux  Falls  scandal-mongers, 
though  I  should  like  to  shout  it  from  the 
house  tops  through  a  megaphone,  I  am  so 
happy  and  proud  of  it. 

So  you  shot  with  Aldrich  and  he  tried  to 
get  you  to  buy  "Steel  Preferred."  I  am 
glad  you  did  not  invest  and  sorry  you  did 
not  win  the  cup.  I  shall  never  again  shoot 
for  pleasure.  I  am  ashamed  of  my  trophies. 
Perhaps  love  has  made  me  mushy  but  I 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

don't  regret  it  as  hate  made  me  flinty. 
Have  you  noticed  how  our  bonds  have 
slumped — the  whole  thing  was  a  Golden 
Fleece.  Commercialism  bores  me  to  extinc 
tion.  I  suppose  the  world  began  with  trade, 
since  Adam  sold  Paradise  for  a  pippin. 

Are  you  still  of  the  opinion  that  trades 
people  should  be  branded  on  the  forehead 
down  to  the  third  generation? — you  dear 
snobbish  treasure. 

Henceforth  I  shall  only  deal  in  senti 
mental  tramways  and  have  shares  in  the 
moral  funds — maybe  not  moral  according  to 
the  threadbare  ideal  of  the  genus  homo  sap 
iens. 

Surprising  that  a  girl  as  young  as  Alice 
Noah — no  relation  to  the  fellow  who  built 
the  ark — should  just  take  out  legal  separa 
tion  papers  in  New  York.  How  can  the 

70 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

modus  vivendi  suit  her  better  than  divorce? 
Perhaps  she  wants  to  cinch  her  alimony  un 
til  she  finds  another  affinity.  Then  Alice 
for  Dakota.  It  is  foolish  to  cut  your  finan 
cial  string  when  you  might  just  as  well 
dangle,  especially  until  you  find  something 
worth  dropping  for. 

Dear,  will  you  please  send  me  a  reel  of 
Sirdars?  I  can't  smoke  anything  else 
and  no  one  sells  them  out  here.  Our  land 
lady  has  one  eye  that  looks  up  the  chimney 
and  another  that  goes  cellar  wards  and 
Carlton  says  that  she  always  regards  him 
obliquely — never  mind,  she  is  is  a  good  stu 
pid  soul  and  I  can  forgive  a  landlady  any 
thing  but  perspicacity.  I  don't  see  how  our 
intimacy  has  escaped  her, — to  me  it  looks 
like  the  first  foreign  sticker  on  an  American 
five  dollar  dress  suit  case. 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

Why  do  you  write  such  short  letters?  Is 
it  because  you  have  but  a  limited  number 
of  ideas  and  must  dispense  them  carefully? 

What  did  Philip  Leighton  die  of?  His 
wife,  I  suppose.  They  never  had  anything 
in  common  but  the  kiddies.  That  means 
no  more  hunts  at  Blackburn  Heath  unless 
someone  careless  like  Philip  absorbs  the 
estate.  Mrs.  Philip  was  a  Pennsylvania 
girl.  N'est  ce  pas?  That  accounts  for  her 
effulgent  spontaneity.  Isn't  it  a  shame  for 
me  to  wax  bombastic  over  a  girl  who,  if  she 
were  just  a  little  brighter,  might  be  called 
half  witted.  She's  the  girl  with  the  massive 
mother,  who  suffers  from  dislocated  adjec 
tives.  They  say  when  she  was  married  her 
prayer  book  was  missing,  so  she  carried  a 
cake  of  ivory  soap  instead — The  mother  was 
divorced  and  could  have  had  alimony  if  she 

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had  wanted  it,  but  she  had  better  sense  than 
to  want  it.  She  has  venomous  optics — the 
fellows  used  to  say  they  flew  when  she  flashed 
her  calciums;  ugly  as  the  seven  deadly  sins 
and  so  mannish  that  I  was  always  afraid  her 
trousers  would  show  beneath  her  petticoats. 
The  giddy  old  cat!  If  she  had  been  hanging 
since  her  sixtieth  birthday,  she  would  cer 
tainly  be  breathless  now. 

All  day,  dear,  I  go  about  my  duties  with 
a  most  ladylike  absence  of  passion,  but 
when  night  comes  I  cross  the  sandy  waste 
of  the  past  and  stretch  out  my  hands  to  fon 
dle  the  idea  of  perfect  companionship.  Our 
thoughts  seem  to  be  a  reverberation  of  the 
same  thunderous  roll,  and  while  they  are 
not  identical,  they  are  of  the  same  breadth 
and  elevation.  The  conditions  of  propin 
quity  are  responsible ;  and  as  love  did  not 

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come  to  me,  I  had  to  do  as  Mahomet  did 
with  the  mountain. 

When  he  goes  from  me,  Joy  vanishes,  but 
leaves  a  bright  track  of  light  behind,  which 
bursts  upon  me  through  the  clouds  of  cigar 
ette  smoke  that  he  has  left. 

Each  day  I  awaken  more  warmed  and 
thrilled,  like  the  sun  which  finds  the  moun 
tain  tops  that  he  touched  with  his  departing 
rays  still  warm  when  he  sends  his  shaft  of 
light  in  the  morn. 

No  maelstrom  of  distrust  do  we  feel,  only 
a  mighty,  overpowering  passion  that  no  un 
dress  of  intimacy  can  ever  destroy. 

Good-night,  friend  of  my  babyhood,  my 
girlhood,  my  womanhood.  My  greetings 

for  your  birthday. 

Airy, 

MARIANNE. 


74 


February  10. 

Don't  be  cross  with  me,  dear,  I  am  in  no 
danger.  Your  repeated  letters  came — I  read 
them,  then  straightway  forgot  that  they 
should  be  answered.  It  is  no  evidence  of  a 
lessening  of  my  love  for  you,  but  because 
life  has  become  so  mysteriously  perfect  for 
me  that  I  dream  away  my  hours. 

One  night,  seemingly  a  million  years  agor 
but  really  only  within  the  present  week,  I 
felt  cold  as  I  stood  by  my  stove  and  plaited 
my  hair — I  have  nice  hair,  Lorna,  haven't 
I?  But  I  didn't  seem  to  notice  it.  I  was 
in  my  nightie  and  I  shivered.  My  white 
chiffon  bedspread  with  the  pink  roses 
strewn  over  it  was  near,  so  I  drew  it  close 
about  me  and  felt  that  I  had  protected  my 
self  from  the  chill.  It  wasn't  an  external 

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chill  that  made  me  quake,  but  something 
old  and  deep-rooted  and  lonely  that  came 
from  the  depths  of  the  soul  in  me  and 
begged  and  pleaded  for  recognition. 

The  big  stove  with  its  dozens  of  mica 
eyes  threw  out  comforting  little  rays  of 
coziness,  but  the  real  me  still  shivered.  I 
walked  to  the  window  and  opened  it. 
Strange,  disquieting,  but  gracious  thoughts 
that  I  had  lost  somewhere  in  the  twilight  of 
the  night  before,  came  riding  back  to  me  on 
a  snow  flurry — it  was  so  still  that  I  feared 
to  breathe,  lest  I  disturb  the  solitude — the 
sky  wasn't  heavy  and  gray,  but  clear  and 
blue  and  seemed  like  a  soft  silken  canopy 
that  the  gaunt  maples  upheld  to  protect  me 
and  my  love,  and  the  virgin  snow  that  fell 
on  my  outstretched  arms  in  soft  little  ros 
ettes  that  disappeared  as  our  loves  some- 

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times  do  when  they  have  but  let  us  feel  the 
deliciousness  of  their  possession. 

The  heavy  old  door  between  my  room 
and  his  creaked  with  rustiness  and  age,  as 
for  the  first  time  in  years  it  turned  upon  its 
hinges.  Carlton  had  watched  for  my  last 
good-night  signal  and  grew  alarmed  at  its 
absence  and  my  quietude. 

I  wonder  why  I  didn't  feel  embarassed — 
all  I  know  is  that  after  he  discovered  a  com 
fortable  angle  in  my  Morris,  I  crawled  into 
his  arms  and  lay  there  quietly  without  a 
word  until  dawn  the  next  morning.  Our 
sleep  was  rhythmic,  just  like  our  love. 
What  a  strange  beautiful  night  we  passed 
and  how  difficult  it  would  be  to  make  the 
world  believe! 

Awakening,  I  felt  something  cold  around 
my  neck,  and  there,  dear  girl,  he  had  fas- 

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tened  pearls  while  I  slept  in  his  arms.  I 
cannot  even  imagine  their  value,  as  I  know 
nothing  of  jewels  but  how  to  accept  and 
wear  them. 

Such  a  gift  is  wonderful  at  any  time,  but 
how  much  more  subtly  charming  to  have  it 
fastened  on  you  as  you  lay,  comfy  and  sub 
conscious  in  his  strong  and  doubtless  aching 
arms.  Such  peace,  peace,  dear,  would  have 
benumbed  Napoleon;  but  I  need  few  other 
interests — my  universe  begins  at  his  head 
and  ends  at  his  feet. 

This  is  the  purest  jag  of  joy  that  I  have 
ever  been  on  in  my  life,  and  I  wonder  that 
one  small  blonde  woman  is  able  to  allow 
herself  so  much  spark  and  not  have  her  en 
gines  explode. 

I  always  fancied  that  I  should  die  if  such 
an  ideal  existence  even  attempted  to  show 

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its  face  to  me;  and  instead,  I  take  my  soup 
before  it's  cold,  put  my  shoes  on  my  feet, 
my  hat  on  my  head,  retire  and  arise  at  the 
usual  hours. 

He  embroiders  his  talk  with  bungalows, 
steam  yachts  and  motor  cars  for  the  future, 
while  I  fear  to  buy  a  pair  of  boots  before  a 
consultation  with  my  trousers  pocket.  I 
find  myself  imprisoned  in  a  banker's  port 
folio,  floundering  in  statements  covered 
with  red  ink.  He  doesn't  dream  that  such 
is  the  case,  or  all  his  funds  would  be  at  my 
disposal.  Somehow,  if  I  had  my  decree,  I 
should  tell  him ;  but  while  I  am  still  some 
one's  else  wife  I  cannot  take  his  money — it 
would  soil  my  emotions. 

Yesterday,  while  opening  a  crate  for  me, 
he  cut  his  finger  very  badly,  and  as  I  bound 
it  up  he  said,  "Forgive  me,"  and  concealing 

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his  hurt,  he  sought  pardon  for  the  pain  he 
had  caused  me. 

His  feelings  are  intuitively  charming,  and 
though  he  hasn't  a  university  education,  he 
has  a  universal  one,  which  counts  for  far 
more  in  this  world  where  a  stab  is  given  in 
return  for  a  pin  prick. 

Good-night,  precious  girl-woman,  whose 
friendship  has  never  failed  me,  whose  love 
has  been  the  most  uplifting  emotion  that  I 
have  ever  known. 

MARIANNE. 


80 


March  3. 
Lorna  Mine: 

My  six  months  were  up  on  March  first, 
but  as  the  judge  hates  undue  haste  about 
serving  papers,  I  waited  one  whole  hour  be 
fore  I  shot  mine  off  to  New  York.  I  am  no 
longer  doing  time,  but  am  a  full-fledged 
citizen  of  South  Dakota.  Isn't  it  nice  that 
my  case  won't  have  a  jury — it  always  gets 
hung  and  it  sounds  unpleasant  even  if  it 
really  isn't. 

Oh !  these  dazzlingly  cool,  fresh,  spring 
days.  If  there  is  anything  more  beautiful 
in  the  West  than  their  gaudy  Indian  sum 
mer,  it  is  the  half  scared  spring.  The  wind 
is  a  bit  blustery  and  pretentious,  but  other 
wise  Nature  seems  doubtful  as  to  whether 
she  will  paint  her  landscape  or  not.  Each 

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night  a  grand  sunset  crowns  the  close  of  a 
cloudless  day. 

Weeks  ago  Carlton's  decree  was  granted 
him,  but  he  stays  to  hold  me  in  his  arms 
while  I  wait  for  mine.  You  ask  if  we  are 
engaged?  Yes — awfully  engaged  all  the 
time. 

I  have  never  before  been  able  to  under 
stand  why  people  put  such  vast  sums  in 
churches.  Now  I  know.  It  isn't  on  account 
of  the  worship,  nor  of  the  interior,  but  for 
the  steps.  When  you  take  into  considera 
tion  what  assistance  they  have  rendered 
lovers,  it  only  seems  just  that  they  should 
be  taxed.  We  worship  at  Christian  Science 
Church,  because  it's  darker,  every  night  ex 
cept  Wednesday;  but  they  have  some  sort 
of  a  shin-dig  then,  so  we  switch  to  the  Epis 
copal  and  take  communion  with  each  other. 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

Nice  clean,  comfy,  red  granite  steps  that 
so  many  pious,  divorce-hating  feet  have 
passed  over.  My  sympathies  go  out  to  all 
women,  even  if  they  are  fallen  and  so  did 
Christ's;  but  the  good  Sioux  Fallians  are 
above  it.  They  pull  all  the  hay  to  their  side 
of  the  manger  and  forget  that  we,  having 
never  used  such  food,  don't  miss  it  now.  It 
is  a  pity  that  we  can't  infuse  more  of  the 
"God-honor-and-the-ladies"  spirit  into  this 
depth  of  silliness  out  here. 

The  West  is  so  big  and  glorious  and  free, 
it  seems  strange  that  the  corn  crop  should 
be  so  superior  to  the  people.  I  suppose  it  is 
because  each  perfect  stalk  of  corn  turns  its 
face  to  God  and  Heaven,  and  the  people  are 
so  busy  gossiping  they  haven't  the  time  to 
worship.  When  we  pass  them  on  the  street 
we  feel  like  saying :  "Our  reputations  are  in 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

your  hands.     In  God's  name  be  merciful!" 

I  am  keeping  house  now  in  my  room — 
light  housekeeping,  you  know.  It's  posi 
tively  airy  sometimes.  My  landlady — bless 
her  ignorant  soul ! — allows  my  little  ice-box 
to  remain  in  her  butler's  pantry,  which  I 
have  christened  "cockroach  alley."  They — 
the  cockroaches — are  so  large  and  educated 
that  I  have  named  them,  and  each  one 
comes  when  it's  called  and  feeds  from  the 
hand. 

She  wears  the  most  artistic  skirts — al 
ways  ball-room  back  and  ballet  front.  Her 
grandchild  was  sitting  on  the  floor  yester 
day,  reading  the  Bible,  when  suddenly  she 
looked  up  and  said:  "Grandma,  there's  a 
grammatical  error  in  this  Bible,"  and  my 
landlady  said:  "Well,  kill  it,  child,  kill  it!" 
She  spends  whole  hours  each  day  talking  to 

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her  birds,  which,  she  claims,  save  the  ex 
pense  of  a  piano.  I  told  the  grandchild  to 
go  out  into  the  sunshine  this  morning  and  it 
would  do  her  cold  good.  She  said,  very 
saucily:  "I  won't  go  into  the  sunshine,  my 
grandma  told  me  to  go  into  the  air."  My 
grandma  didn't  tell  me  to  go  there,  Lorna, 
but  someone  must  have  ordered  it,  for  in  the 
"air"  I  am,  and  so  high  that  I  no  longer  feel 
the  earth  beneath  my  feet. 

Thank  you  so  much  for  Mr.  Fitch's  .article. 
So  you  think  that  Sioux  Falls  is  like 
his  description  of  it.  He  came  in  one  night 
and  left  the  next  morning,  then  wrote  an  ar 
ticle  which  is  a  gross  exaggeration  in  every 
particular.  In  the  first  place  there  was 
never  but  one  French  maid  here  and  she 
was  Irish.  It  is  true  that  some  scandalous 
people  come  here,  but  there  are  also  scan- 

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dalous  residents;  however,  there  are  many 
more  divorcees,  quiet,  charming  and  un 
seen,  who  do  not  fret  away  their  six  months, 
but  spend  them  profitably,  writing,  sewing, 
taking  care  of  their  beloved  children,  et 
cetera. 

The  very  idea  of  mentioning  anything  as 
incongruous  as  Sioux  Falls  and  luxury  in 
the  same  breath — it's  a  slam  on  luxury!  Big 
and  luxurious  hotels — Mr.  Fitch  ought  to 
be  mobbed.  Wonder  if  he  got  a  whiff  of  the 
lobby  of  the  only  thing  that  can  be  called 
an  hotel  here,  or  if  he  had  a  cold  during  his 
prolonged  stay  of  twelve  hours,  nine  of 
which  he  slept  through.  At  the  hotel  yes 
terday  I  mentioned  to  the  elevator  boy  that 
many  children  were  stopping  there.  He  an 
swered:  "Yes,  there  is  more  children  than 
there  is  guests." 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

That  grill  room  that  he  speaks  of  is  a  dim 
memory ;  I  think  it  lasted  two  months ;  and 
as  it  depended  on  divorce  custom  entirely, 
and  as  the  main  part  of  the  colony  sups  in 
its  own  home,  the  thing  fell  through.  And 
the  theatres,  dear,  we  have  had  two  good 
shows  since  I  came,  otherwise  "ten,  twenty 
and  thirty." 

The  women  and  preachers  may  be  against 
the  quick  lunch  method  of  divorce,  but  you 
can  gamble  on  it  that  the  business  men 
heartily  approve;  and  these  same  women 
and  preachers  will  find  their  larders  and 
contribution  boxes  but  scantily  filled  if  the 
odorous  money  of  the  dissolute  "Divorsay"  is 
barred. 

I  am  all  excited  over  the  article  as  there 
is  neither  truth  nor  ruth  in  it,  and  Carlton 
is  intensely  amused,  so  I  suppose  I  will  not 
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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

try  to  fight  the  battles  of  the  colony  so  long 
as  I  am  lazy  and  comfortable  in  the  arms  of 
my  love. 

Had  a  long  letter  from  Gretchen  yester 
day  in  which  she  says  she  enjoyed  her 
bridal  tour  thoroughly,  particularly  at  the 
Falls  I  wrote  back  and  asked:  Which? — 
Niagara  or  Sioux?" 

Good-night,  dearest,  I  close  my  eyes  and 
sleep  in  a  moment,  as  there  are  no  longer 
any  thorns  to  stuff  my  pillow. 

MARIANNE. 


May  2nd. 
Lorna  Dear: 

It  wasn't  a  bit  hard  to  live  through.  The 
papers  all  came  back  by  return  mail,  and  all 
day  Sunday  I  was  in  my  attorney's  office 
practising.  It  wasn't  any  more  difficult 
than  a  Sunday-school  lesson,  and  Monday 
morning  at  eight  o'clock  I  was  waiting  at 
Liberty  Hall  for  the  hoped-for  arrival  of 
"The  Greatest  Common  Divisor."  At  last 
he  came,  but  with  a  sour  expression,  and 
not  knowing  what  trouble  he  might  have 
had  before  he  left  home,  I  tried  to  be  pa 
tient. 

We  were  ushered  through  the  big  court 
room  into  the  judge's  sanctum — asked  how 
long  I'd  been  here,  and  so  forth  and  so  fifth 
— then  the  comical  question:  "Do  you  ex- 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

pect  to  make  Sioux  Falls  your  home?"  and 
the  threadbare  reply:  "I  have  made  no 
plans  for  the  future,"  when  all  the  time  I 
had  my  I.  C.  tickets  for  the  3.30  train  in  my 
pocket.  Do  you  know  that  was  the  first 
time  I  ever  really  perjured  myself — like  a 
lady — before,  and  somehow  I  wished  aw 
fully  that  I  had  let  Carlton  hold  the  tickets 
until  after  the  trial.  I  couldn't  even  get  my 
kerchief  out  of  my  pocketbook  for  fear  the 
blooming  time  tables  and  tickets  would 
show.  Oh!  the  judge  was  terribly  sac 
charine  after  he  warmed  up,  and  I  adore 
him.  Wish  I  had  to  get  another  divorce 
tomorrow — he's  just  like  a  dear  old  Univer 
sal  Dad,  and  everyone  loves  him. 

Well!  dear,  just  to  think  of  it.  I've  lost 
my  hobbies !  Isn't  it  great,  and  yet  isn't  it 
really  sad !  It  means  a  failure  in  the  great- 

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est  undertaking  of  a  woman's  life,  and  it 
also  means  that  I  issue  forth — branded.  I 
refuse  to  hold  post  mortems  and  am  prac 
tising  loss  of  memory.  Now  for  the  possi 
bilities  of  the  future.  Possibility  is  the  big 
gest  word  in  the  dictionary.  Isn't  it 
strange  that  a  woman  may  live  apart  from 
her  husband  and  do  atrocious  things,  with 
out  wearing  the  tell-tale  letter  on  her 
bosom,  yet  let  a  virtuous  woman  take  the 
step  for  freedom,  and,  alas!  she  carries  the 
scar  as  long  as  she  breathes.  But  its  worth 
it,  dear.  I  have  thought  it  all  over  and  I 
repeat  it  a  thousand  times,  its  worth 
it.  "I  have  written  it  upon  the  doorposts  of 
my  house  and  upon  my  gates,  and  I  wear  it 
as  frontlets  between  mine  eyes" — it's  worth 
it! 

I  have  worn  crepe  for  my  departed  vir- 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

tues  for  six  years,  but  I  throw  it  aside  now 
and  feel  a  new  being  whose  glad  unrestraint 
may  carry  her  farther  than  she  intended, 
just  as  prudery  often  lends  a  woman  greater 
cruelty  than  she  feels. 

How  clever  of  Don  Willard  to  buy  in 
Northern  Pacific  during  the  slump.  He 
gets  on  with  his  sense  of  smell — he's  a 
jackal  who  scents  a  carcass  and  gets  there 
in  time  for  a  good  bone. 

While  unpacking  my  trunk  today  I  came 
across  my  wedding  veil  and  it  was  all  gray 
and  dingy  like  the  end  of  my  honeymoon. 
How  many  sweet  and  tremulous  illusions 
I  folded  into  it  on  that  first  night  and  how 
soon  afterwards  did  three-fourths  of  the 
wlorld  look  like  ashes  to  me.  Dreams  are 
harder  to  give  up  than  realities,  because 
they  come  back  and  gibe  us  even  after  they 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

are  dead  and  buried,  while  tangible  realities 
stay  fairly  well  hidden  when  We  screw 
down  the  lid.  I  suppose  you  think  that  I 
talk  like  Old  Man  Solomon,  but  you  know 
that  the  only  serious  thoughts  I  have  are 
mushrooms  of  one  minute's  gestation. 

My  landlady  does  her  own  washing,  so 
I  asked  her  if  she  would  do  mine  for  ample 
pay.  She  suffers  so  from  modesty  that  she 
was  hardly  able  to  answer  me,  but  finally 
said:  "I  would  be  willing  to,  but  my  hus 
band  don't  improve  on  it."  Poor  creature, 
she  has  lived  here  all  her  days  and  is  still 
unable  to  direct  me  to  a  single  place — her 
bump  of  location  is  surely  a  dent. 

Mrs.  Judge  knows  the  name  of  each  mem 
ber  of  the  colony ;  when  they  came  and  how 
often  they  have  gone  away,  and  the  Lord 
help  you  if  your  residence  isn't  right! 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

That's  the  one  thing  that  the  Judge  is 
squeamish  about,  and  as  Mrs.  Judge  keeps 
tab  for  him,  there  is  no  use  trying  to  fudge. 
If  you  don't  come  up  before  the  Judge  in 
six  months  and  one  week,  she  inquires  of 
your  landlady  the  reason  for  your  delay. 
And  of  course  the  landlady  knows  the  rea 
son,  even  if  you  don't  yourself.  Every 
Monday  afternoon  Mrs.  Judge  drives  by  the 
I.  C.  station  at  exactly  3.25  to  see  which  one 
of  the  widows,  whose  case  was  tried  that 
morning,  is  leaving  the  same  day.  Of  course 
they  all  leave  unless  they  are  prostrated 
with  excitement.  We  always  pack  all  bag 
gage  on  Saturday,  the  dress-suit  cases  on 
Sunday,  and  engage  the  drayman  on  the 
way  down  to  the  trial  Monday  morning. 
There  has  never  been  any  hitch  in  the  ar 
rangements,  so  I  suppose  they  will  remain 

94 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

the  same  until  the  end  of  time. 

You  don't  know  what  a  comfort  my  phon 
ograph  has  been  to  me — I  would  never  at 
tempt  another  divorce  without  one.  The 
long,  lonely  evenings — the  endless  days, 
when  time  never  moves  off  the  spot,  my 
dogs  and  I  have  sat  on  the  floor  fascinated 
with  the  greatest  music  in  the  world.  I 
like  my  machine  because  it  may  be  de 
pended  upon,  never  is  nervous,  and  always 
willing  to  perform.  Talent  is  so  spasmodic 
and  dependent  upon  moods,  while  the  litttle 
hard  rubber  discs  tirelessly  and  graciously 
amuse  you. 

You  say  that  you  will  write  more  anon.  I 
have  looked  in  Webster  and  the  Brittanica, 
as  I  was  a  bit  anxious  to  find  out  just  what 
length  of  time  anon  signifies,  but  I  have 
been  unsuccessful.  In  other  words,  if  after 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

breakfast  someone  said  to  me,  "You  shall 
have  more  food  anon,"  I  should  probably 
starve  to  death  if  I  sat  down  and  waited  for 
it.  Now  don't  be  mean  to  me  because  I  am 
in  love  and  have  neglected  you.  I  send  you 
thousands  of  messages  and  ask  you  thou 
sands  of  questions  each  day,  and  simply  be 
cause  I  don't  waste  time  and  paper  in  set 
ting  them  down  is  no  sign  that  you  aren't 
constantly  in  my  thoughts.  Love  knows 
no  distance,  and  I  go  to  you  every  evening 
for  a  good-night  kiss  just  as  I  close  my  eyes 
to  sleep,  and  always  do  I  feel  that  you  know 
it.  There  is  no  barrier  of  antagonism 
around  you  so  my  spirit  enters  where  you 
are  whenever  it  so  desires. 

You  are  melancholy  again — how  can  you 
live  in  stays  set  with  nails  and  maintain  the 
grace  of  a  dancer?  It  must  be  because  of 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

your  child.  I  could  not  do  it,  I'm  sure — 
not  even  for  my  child  if  I  had  one.  You 
are  wiser  than  most  of  us  fools  who  have 
choked  our  lives  in  the  mud  of  New  York. 
To  men,  dear,  you  are  a  cold  Alp.  Snow 
bound  and  near  to  heaven,  impenetrable  and 
frowning  with  flanks  of  granite,  and  yet 
beneficent.  How  do  you  accomplish  it 
when  your  heart  is  wrung  from  year's  end 
to  year's  end? 

It  must  be  Machiavellian  foresight,  pre 
cious — foresight  that  you  alone,  out  of  the 
whole  set,  possess.  The  world  never  -for 
gives  a  failure  and  never  forgives  you  for 
telling  it  the  truth,  and  my  standard  is 
truth,  as  near  as  possible,  and  yours  is  sac 
rifice  complete.  Which  is  right?  We  shall 
go  on  begging  the  question  until  the  end 
of  time.  In  human  transactions  the  law  of 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

optics  seems  to  be  reversed — we  always 
see  indistinctly  the  things  that  are  nearest 
to  us.  You  have  never  judged,  so  judge  me 
not. 

MARIANNE. 


98 


The  Black  Hills, 

September  20. 
Dearest  Lorna: 

A  thousand  years  ago — or  maybe  it 
wasn't  so  long,  I  can't  clearly  remember 
things  any  more,  time  isn't  of  any  conse 
quence,  but  it  was  the  day  I  received  my 
decree,  and  I  returned  my  railroad  tickets 
to  the  I.  C.  office — Carlton  and  I  packed  up 
some  rugs,  pillows  and  luncheon,  and 
floated  down  the  river  to  breathe  confi 
dences.  Far  away  on  the  horizon  was  a 
misty  hedge  of  cypress  trees  darkly  traced 
on  a  canvas  of  lavenders  and  blues,  over 
hung  by  extravagant  yards  of  cloudy  chif 
fon.  Nearby  the  tall  alders  were  all  bent 
to  the  southward,  from  the  bitter  winds, 
and  looked  like  huge  giants  on  the  march 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

with  heavy  burdens  on  their  shoulders. 
They  swayed  at  times  and  seemed  likely  to 
fall  with  their  loads.  On  and  on  we  floated, 
and  on  and  on  they  marched. 

The  country  was  as  tremulous  as  a  bride, 
and  to  us  nothing  seemed  impossible.  In 
such  magic  moments  when  enjoyment  sheds 
its  reflection  on  the  future  the  soul  fore 
sees  nothing  but  happiness. 

Toward  sunset  we  moored  our  boat  to  a 
tree  in  a  little  backwater  where  the  current 
was  barely  felt  and  mutely  watched  the 
changes  in  the  great  turquoise  satin  tent 
above  us  that  seemed  held  aloft  by  the  hills 
to  shelter  the  landscape  of  barley  and  corn 
and  wheat  that  swished  and  swished  like 
feminine  music  of  taffeta  petticoats. 

We  felt  reasons  all  around  us  why  we 
should  be  happy — the  trees  were  greens  and 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

browns — no  one  like  the  other,  blended  in 
the  harmonious  colorings  of  an  old  French 
tapestry  stolen  from  a  deserted  chateau. 

All  the  earth  seemed  so  sweet  and  so 
pure,  and  we  were  enjoying  the  world  as  a 
clean  open-air  playground.  A  few  fluffy 
clouds  began  to  appear,  but  old  Boreas  blew 
them  away  as  soon  as  the  west  wind 
brought  them  up. 

Suddenly  his  gaze  betrayed  remembrance 
and  he  drew  me  into  his  arms  and  our  lips 
met.  Thus  we  remained,  languidly  content, 
until  long  after  the  sky  man  had  studded 
the  heavens  with  millions  of  silver  nails. 
And  there,  near  a  field  of  cattle,  like  Paul 
Potter  painted,  under  a  sky  worthy  of  Ra 
phael,  in  a  cove  overhung  with  trees  like 
a  picture  by  Hobbema,  he  asked  me  to  be 
his  wife.  And  then  the  sweetest  ceremony 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

that  ever  was  solemnized  under  God's 
loving  eyes  was  fulfilled  there  in  the  still 
ness  of  the  night.  He  said :  "I  love  you," 
and  for  answer  I  said:  "I  love  you  too," 
and  on  my  finger  was  placed  a  cool  new 
band,  which  reads  within :  "For  all  eter 
nity."  As  old  and  worldly  as  I  am,  I  felt 
all  the  instinct  of  chastity  and  delicacy 
which  is  the  very  material  of  a  first  love. 
Our  wedding  feast  was  spread  out  in  the  bot 
tom  of  the  craft,  with  no  effulgence  of  light 
save  the  reflection  of  God's  own  lanterns. 

All  sorts  of  night  things  chirped  and  sang 
of  our  joy,  and  trout  leaped  from  the  water 
in  answer  to  the  bread  that  I  crumbled  for 
them. 

Our  boat  rocked  and  swayed  as  the  cur 
rent  reached  us  more  directly,  and  leaves 
and  sticks  and  weeds  went  floating  by  with 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

turgid  little  whirlpools  swirling  aft.  We 
were  lazy  lurdans,  nestling  there  in  the 
moonlight,  but  time  is  the  precious  gift  of 
the  Almighty  and  man  may  gamble  it  away 
if  he  chooses.  Finally  dawn  found  us 
floating  homeward  in  the  mists  of  awaken 
ing  morn. 

Months  and  months  have  passed  since 
then — strange  new  mother  instincts  have 
arisen  in  my  soul,  and  he  still  presses  me  to 
his  heart  and  whispers:  "For  all  eternity." 

You  could  not  discover  my  whereabouts, 
as  I  left  no  address  in  Sioux  Falls.  I  did 
not  want  the  world  nor  society,  not  even 
you,  but  just  solitude — and  my  husband. 
Now  we  want  you  to  know  that  in  this 
beautiful  wilderness  we  have  a  home — a 
mountain  home  with  placid  Indian  servants, 
who  glide  in  and  out  and  serve  noiselessly 

103 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

and  speechlessly :  I  must  confess  that  I  am 
only  one-half  brave,  as  the  world,  all  but 
you,  thinks  that  a  minister  has  mumbled 
over  us  for  a  second  time. 

You  are  great  enough  to  appreciate  the 
Joy  we  feel  in  cheating  all  humanity.  Carl- 
ton  has  willed  all  of  his  possessions  to  me 
and  to  our  precious  little  future  reproduc 
tion  of  our  love,  who  can  but  be  perfect,  as 
he  is  a  creature  of  perfect  conditions.  We 
are  also  but  half  great,  as  it  pleased  us  that 
the  New  York  papers  reported  our  mar 
riage;  but  in  our  lives  we  are  all-great  and 
all-sufficient  for  each  other. 

Our  bungalow  is  built  in  rugged,  prim 
eval  "Spearfish  Canon,"  but  you  may  ad 
dress  all  mail  to  Custer,  where  Carlton  goes 
in  his  motor  every  day  for  things  that  please 
me. 

104 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

I  am  so  happy,  so  proud,  so  grateful  that 
my  mate  is  as  far-seeing  as  I  am,  and  we 
feel  a  mutual  dread  for  the  time  when  we 
must  forsake  our  Black  Hills  for  the  fuller 
and  less  satisfying  life  in  New  York — but 
we  can't  play  always,  out  here  in  the  sun 
shine. 

Write  to  me  soon  and  forgive  me  for 
doubting  that  you  would  understand. 

MARIANNE. 


105 


Black  Hills, 
November  25. 
Dearest : 

How  happy  your  letter  has  made  me  and 
how  slow  you  were  in  making  up  your 
mind,  but  I'd  rather  have  you  love  me  after 
thinking  than  to  love  me  just  because  I'm 
I.  Had  you  not  understood,  I  should  have 
loved  you  but  because  you  understand  I 
bow  down  and  idolize  you  as  I  have  done 
all  my  days. 

Every  girl  deserves  a  mother — it  is  her 
natural  heritage  and  Nature  risks  a  great 
deal  in  cheating  her  out  of  her  original 
right.  I  have  been  defrauded,  but  a  friend 
like  you  compensates  for  much  and  is  a 
straight  gift  from  God  and  Heaven. 

Carlton  and  I  have  motored  over  to  Cus- 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

ter  every  day  for  your  letter  but  not  until 
yesterday  were  we  recompensed  for  all  the 
anxiety  and  doubt  that  I  might  have  suf 
fered.  We  read  it  together  and  I  am  not 
ashamed  that  our  eyes  were  moist  with  joy 
as  we  drove  slowly  awray  from  the  little  vil 
lage  and  out  into  our  free  and  glorious  prim- 
evalism  again.  The  twilight  fell  like  a  sil 
ver  dust  on  the  crests  of  two  double  rows 
of  ancient  elms  in  a  long  and  lordly  country 
road,  and  lighted  up  the  sand  and  the  dry 
ing  wild  grass  that  had  waved  like  so  many 
spears  of  gold  in  the  sunset  of  a  few  mo 
ments  before.  On  and  on  we  flew — he  with 
a  trembling  hand  on  the  wheel  and  I  with 
my  arm  around  him  and  my  lips  pressing 
his  cheek. 

The  rays  of  our  acetylene  lamps  began  to 
cast  lurid  lights  before  us  as  the  darkness 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

thickened,  just  as  my  soul's  fire  is  luminous 
now  in  an  atmosphere  ordained  to  bring 
forth  all  its  normal  glory — and  all  the  while 
the  back  seats  were  empty ;  empty  dear.  Do 
you  know  the  luxury  of  it? 

We  were  both  dreaming  and  praying — 
dreaming  of  a  thousand  more  such  perfect 
nights,  praying  in  all  our  fervor  and  grati 
tude  for  more  and  yet  more  of  our  bound 
less  and  mutual  passion.  And  then  we  lost 
our  way  as  the  machine  rushed  into  a  mys 
tic  cross-road  that  led  due  north,  for  the 
Dipper  was  before  us.  I  crawled  closer  and 
closer  to  him  until  I  could  hear  his  heart 
pounding  mercilessly  as  his  breath  came 
quicker  and  my  lips  pressed  closer.  The 
lamps  were  brilliant  then  and  the  woods 
and  fields  as  silent  and  endless  as  eternity. 
A  long  snake  stretched  its  lazy  length 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

across  our  path  and  frogs  held  mute  high 
carnival  on  all  the  little  hills  and  bumps  on 
the  high  road. 

We  both  felt  the  inspiration  of  the  mo 
ment  and  neither  profaned  it  with  words. 
As  far  as  our  lights  fell  three  waving,  nod 
ding  bands  of  seered  grass,  beckoned  us  on 
and  heedless  of  the  danger  we  might  be 
rushing  toward — our  empassioned  lips  met. 
And  like  eternity  the  mystic  course  lay  hid 
den  in  darkness  before  us,  but  also  like  the 
things  that  look  most  forbidding  in  the  fu 
ture,  as  we  rushed  by,  the  yellow  hedge 
turned  golden  by  our  lamps,  the  grassy  plu 
mage  rose  and  fell  in  sallow  waves  of  ap 
probation. 

The  good  little  people  were  with  us  (you 
know  I  believe  in  fairies)  and  the  faithful 
engine  puffed  and  struggled  and  tried  its 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

best  on  the  incline  that  we  were  ascending, 
but  we  were  too  jealous  of  our  sensations 
to  pay  much  heed  to  its  unaided  success. 
I  would  work  in  the  fields  for  ten  days  were 
I  sure  that  the  eleventh  night  would  be  such 
another  as  this. 

So  lofty  are  the  regions  where  I  soar,  that 
a  fall  would  shiver  me  to  atoms,  but  just 
to  breathe  the  same  air  with  my  love  lifts 
me  to  the  vault  of  paradise.  Whole  hours 
each  evening  I  lie  on  an  Indian  blanket  in 
front  of  the  open  grate  and  dream  of  the 
legacy  of  love  that  we  shall  hand  down  to 
our  children  and  our  children's  children  un 
til  the  end  of  time. 

Ecstatically  yours, 
MARIANNE. 


110 


December  25. 
Dearest  Friend: 

We  are  snowed  in  and  our  two  bronze 
boys  are  trying  to  make  a  path  to  the  road. 
We  are  all  so  abnormally  well  and  with  the 
nurse  and  Carlton's  friend  Dr.  Harmen,  con 
stitute  a  lively  household  thought  I  liked 
the  sweetness  of  our  oneness  better.  These 
are  happy  times  and  they  watch  and  guard 
me  as  though  I  were  another  Wilhelmina. 

Was  ever  Christmas  day  so  wonderful! 
Our  tree  is  a  real  cedar  of  Lebanon,  uproot 
ed  by  our  beloved  Indians  and  decorated 
with  their  handiwork.  Last  eve  we  romped 
and  sang  and  played  tricks  upon  each  other 
until  midnight,  when  we  saucily  hung  up 
the  biggest  stockings  and  sneaked  off  to  bed 
to  leave  our  Santa  Claus  with  his  labors. 

Ill 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

It  must  have  taken  him  hours  for  I  slept 
for  ages  when  I  finally  heard  him  getting 
ready  for  bed.  I  slipped  into  my  kimono 
and  tried  to  crawl  down  stairs  and  take  a 
peep,  but  he  heard  me  and  would  not  count 
enance  any  cheating  so  I  snuggled  up 
again  and  went  to  sleep,  but  like  children, 
we  were  all  up  at  daybreak.  For  days  and 
days  Carlton  has  been  going  on  clandestine 
shopping  tours  to  the  meccas  around  us 
and  has  kept  all  purchases  locked  and 
guarded.  He  can't  bear  the  thought  of 
grown-ups  not  loving  and  believing  in  San 
ta. 

Aside  from  all  the  valuable  and  exquisite 
things  that  each  received,  the  gift  that 
proved  Carlton's  feeling  toward  me, — if  I 
may  insult  that  feeling  by  even  suggesting 
the  necessity  of  a  proof — was  a  tiny  silk 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

stocking,  hung  quite  at  the  end  of  the  man 
tel  shelf,  all  alone  as  though  it  needed  no  pro 
tection,  and  filled  with — you  would  never 
guess  in  a  thousand  years,  so  I  shan't  keep 
you  suspended  in  mid  air — fifty  thousand 
dollars  in  U.  S.  bonds  to  start  a  bank  ac 
count  for  the  little  visitor  that  is  to  come. 
Every  night  before  we  sleep,  we  talk  to  our 
baby  we  pray  to  our  baby,  we  worship  our 
baby.  Only  beautiful  thoughts  come  to  our 
minds ;  only  beautiful  things  come  to  our 
hands, — surely  God  sends  babies  for  other 
reasons  than  to  propagate  the  species — we 
are  grown  entirely  unselfish;  we  are  filled 
with  kindly  sympathies  and  affection,  and 
our  energies  and  aims  reach  to  Heaven. 

A  beautiful  pink  satin  baby  basket  came 
direct  from  Printemps,  filled  with  the  most 
delicate  little  garments  that  a  human  hand 

113 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

could  create.  Do  you  remember  the  day 
when  we  were  at  school  in  Paris,  that  we 
passed  Printemp's  baby  shop  and  planned 
our  progenys'  outfits — twenty  years  ago? 
I  am  now  fuller  of  the  joy  of  living  than  I 
was  then — but  on  the  threshold  of  womanly 
emotions. 

From  my  window  I  can  see  far  down  the 
icy  canon.  The  mountain  stream  is  a  fluted 
ribbon  of  snow  and  ice,  and  where  the  spray 
tumbled  before  it  froze,  there  are  thousands 
of  filmy  rosettes  iridescent  in  the  sun's  rays. 
The  path  is  finished  and  Dr.  Harmen  is 
building  a  snow  man.  We  are  civilized 
aborigines  gone  mad  with  youth  out  here 
in  the  frigid  zone,  and  anything  as  grown 
up  as  bridge  has  failed  to  interest  us.  From 
our  home  on  the  summit  of  "Kewanas 
Crag,"  Silver  Lake  looks  like  a  stray  tur- 

114 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

quoise  below  and  the  mysterious  Black 
Hills  around  us  catch  glimpses  of  gold  in 
the  sunset  hour,  then  dye  themselves  pur 
ple,  take  a  tint  of  glowing  rose-water,  then 
turn  dull  and  gray;  a  drama  of  color  goes 
on  ceaselessly ;  a  play  of  ever  shifting  hues 
like  those  on  a  pigeon's  breast. 

Do  you  know  of  anyone  who  has  ever 
died  in  childbirth?  If  you  do,  don't  tell  me, 
as  I  am  beginning  to  be  frightened.  Not 
afraid  of  the  agony,  for  I  rather  enjoy  pon 
dering  over  the  sacrifice,  but  so  fearful  of 
leaving  all  of  this  barely  tasted  sweet  be 
hind  me.  It  seems  as  though  my  impa 
tience  would  consume  me — I  want  so  to 
know  whether  I  may  be  spared  for  more 
and  more  days  of  our  endless  joy. 

Your  Christmas  box  came  one  day  too 
soon  and,  like  the  child  that  I  am  trans- 

115 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

formed  into,  I  resorted  to  tears  in  order  to 
wheedle  Carlton  into  permitting  me  to  open 
it.  The  little  things  are  wonderful  and  the 
discretion  of  your  love  is  more  so.  Each 
little  article  is  an  expression  of  your  fault 
less  friendship,  for  losing  which,  not  even 
Carlton's  love  could  compensate  me. 

The  new  decorations  in  my  bed  room  are 
all  in  bloom  like  our  love,  and  I  lie  awake 
during  my  specified  hours  of  rest,  gather 
ing  mental  roses  from  my  wall  garden.  My 
revival  is  as  natural  as  the  effect  of  May  on 
the  meadows ;  of  a  shower  on  a  dry  plant. 
I  awaken  with  the  breath  of  my  Spring, 
which  is  heavy  with  Oriental  sweetness  like 
a  rose  of  Frangistan.  I  should  not  in  such 
moments  as  these,  feel  a  death  blow. 

All  of  the  old  mental  bruises  caused  by 
knocking  myself  against  corners,  some  that 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

I  myself  created  at  times,  and  others  that  I 
saw  but  could  not  escape,  are  healed  and 
quite  forgotten  in  this  new  world  of  mine. 
I  press  a  goodnight  kiss  on  your  dear  un 
derstanding  lips. 

MARIANNE. 


117 


The  Black  Hills. 

February  i. 
Dearest  of  all  Friends : 

Today  for  the  first  time  I  am  permitted 
to  write  one  letter,  while  Dr.  Harmen  and 
Carlton  are  trying  to  discover  traces  of  rare 
genius  on  the  head  of  Carlton  Church  Som- 
erville  Junior,  who  resembles  one  of  those 
cherubs  circling  about  the  Eternal  Father  in 
an  old  Italian  picture. 

Dizzy  with  the  wonder  of  it  all,  I  lie  for 
hours  trying  to  convince  myself  that  the 
world  is  real.  When  my  child  awakens  and 
craves  his  nourishment,  I  cry  for  very  ec- 
stacy  of  giving  him  life.  What  woman  on 
earth  who  has  nursed  her  child  once,  can 
refrain  from  doing  so  again?  His  velvet  lips 
kiss  me ;  his  precious  hand,  dimpled  and  in- 

118 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

mature,  fondles  me  in  gratitude.  How  can 
any  mother  ever  be  unhappy  while  her  in 
fant  breathes  upon  her  breast. 

My  wasted  years  squandered  in  society 
seem  hideous  fancies  of  a  perverted  mind, 
while  my  one  glorious  year  out  here  is  a 
deep-breathing,  pure  record  of  clean 
thoughts  and  a  perfect  life.  No  one  save 
God  Almighty  to  wish  us  well  on  our  wed 
ding  day;  no  purring  women  and  overfed 
men  to  throw  rice  and  old  shoes  along  with 
the  "wedding  formula" — "Isn't  she  a  perfect 
bride," — "did  ever  couple  seem  so  well 
suited," — "they  are  real  affinities  et  cet 
era,"  all  of  which  started  me  out  on  my 
bridal  trip  sixteen  years  ago.  I  shall  never 
witness  another  wedding  as  long  as  I  live — 
it  is  too  insufferably  sad  a  contemplation. 

It   seems   strange   and   pitiful   that  your 

119 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

sweet  daughter  is  now  old  enough  to  make 
her  formal  bow  into  an  atmosphere  of 
hatred  and  vice.  If  she  could  but  seek  rap 
turous  peace  out  here  in  my  wilderness  with 
some  man  that  she  really  loves — but  no  wo 
man  is  born  into  mature  society  with  a 
knowledge  of  its  utter  worthlessness.  And 
even  were  you  able  to  convince  her  of  it 
now,  it  would  be  a  sin  to  rob  her  sweet 
mentality  of  its  blushes.  No,  the  precious 
child  must  first  suffer  and  find  out  alone. 
Almost  childlessly  greedy  do  I  feel,  to 
live  so  perfectly  while  you  are  still  sacri 
ficing  your  years  on  the  altar  of  mother 
hood.  At  least  I  am  thankful  that  Walter 
has  decided  to  parade  his  affairs  less,  now 
that  Evelyn  is  coming  out.  You  proud, 
queenly,  beautiful  woman,  how  can  you  be 
so  brave?  In  your  place  I  should  have 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

died  of  hopelessness  and  grief  years  ago. 
But  you  go  on  with  your  precious  head  high 
in  the  air,  smiling,  though  crushed  by  your 
agony.  Day  in  and  day  out  your  nerves  are 
taut — you  never  rest.  Why  hasn't  some 
thing  snapped  years  ago?  Perhaps  God 
gives  an  abundance  of  strength  to  those 
who  are  ordained  to  suffer  most. 

You  ask  if  I  have  any  regrets.    No — no — 
a  million  times  no.    I  have  torn  the  word 
from  my  dictionary  and  have  forgotten  the 
meaning.    I  repeat  a  thousand  times  a  day 
my  honest  prayer: — 
"Spare  me  O  Lord  the  crowded  way, 
Life's  busy  mart  where  men  contend, 
For  me  the  home  the  tranquil  day, 
A  little  sock  to  mend." 

I  try  never  to  think  of  an  end  to  my  hap 
piness,  but  somehow  the  crushing  thought 

121 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

comes  and  stifles  me  into  abject  fear.  Then 
my  husband  brings  me  my  little  child  and 
the  evil  thoughts  are  kissed  away. 

Yesterday  Carlton's  eyes  filled  with  tears 
of  gratitude  as  I  sat  nursing  our  baby  be 
fore  the  open  grate  and  running  my  hand 
through  his  thick  brown  hair  as  he  sat  on 
the  floor  beside  us.  We  remain  long  hours 
in  silence  watching  the  pictures  in  the 
blazing  back  logs,  then  suddenly  we  em 
brace  to  prove  mutually  that  we  still  have 
each  other. 

The  river  is  still  a  frozen  jagged  band  all 
down  the  canon,  and  the  roads  are  knee 
deep  with  snow  and  ice.  I  scarcely  breathe 
while  Carlton  is  away  in  his  motor,  for  fear 
the  wheels  will  skid  and  hurl  him  into  end 
less  depths  down  the  mountain  side.  It  is 
impossible  to  procure  food  without  his  go- 

122 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

ing  to  the  railroad,  but  each  day  I  try  to 
believe  that  I  don't  need  nourishment  just 
to  see  if  I  can't  prevent  these  precarious 
errands.  We  live  so  naturally  and  so  hap 
pily  that  we  are  staying  on  indefinitely  in 
our  frozen  love  bower. 

Dr.  Harmen  leaves  tomorrow  after  weeks 
of  rejuvenating  pleasures  out  here.  The 
nurse  will  remain  to  render  me  such  assist 
ance  as  I  need,  though  I  am  so  jealous  of  her 
care  of  my  son  that  I  shall  claim  my  mother 
rights  as  soon  as  I  am  strong  enough.  Jun 
ior  has  his  father's  eyes  with  all  the  softness 
of  the  blue  periwinkle  flower  in  their  splen 
did  depths,  and  I  feel  when  I  hold  him  in 
my  arms  and  am  held  in  turn  in  Carlton's 
that  I  can  never  give  either  of  them  up— = 
even  to  the  Almighty.  I  will  never  give 

123 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

them  up.    They  are  mine  and  I  am  theirs — 
for  all  eternity. 

Adieu  sweet  friend, 
MARIANNE. 


124 


February  25. 

It  has  come.  The  bright  fire  in  the  grate 
is  a  heap  of  smouldering  ashes  and  all  the 
pictures  and  dreams  are  dead.  I  cannot 
breathe — I  cannot  live — I  am  insane  with 
grief.  And  the  ignorant  world  teaches  of  an 
all  merciful  God — an  all  seeing  Father !  The 
irony  of  it!  I  cannot  live — I  must  go  too. 
It  will  be  impossible  to  go  on,  and  on,  alone 
— forever  and  for  all  eternity — alone — I 
cannot — I  will  not ! 

They  are  lying  down  there  in  their 
shrouds — my  husband  and  his  faithful  Mon- 
kaushka  with  their  poor  bodies  crushed  and 
mangled — O!  I  cannot  tell  you  more!  The 
machine  is  an  unsightly  heap  at  the  bot 
tom  of  the  ravine.  I  cannot  write— -I  can 
not  think  and  yet  I  must  do  both.  What 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

have  I  done  but  love  with  all  my  womanhood 
and  all  my  motherhood! 

After  all  it  was  beautiful  for  him  to  die 
and  go  to  heaven  while  flowers  filled  his 
hands.  A  loud  cry  has  gone  up  in  my  soul ; 
an  echo  as  it  were  of  the  funereal  Consum- 
matutn  est,  which  is  pronounced  in  church  on 
Good  Friday  at  the  hour  when  the  Saviour 
died.  And  all  day  I  wring  my  hands  help 
lessly  and  can  do  nought  but  build  dun 
geons  and  dungeons  in  the  air.  I  speak  in 
an  altered  voice  as  though  my  instrument 
had  lost  several  strings  and  those  that  re 
mained  were  loosened. 

Dearest — can  you  tell  me — am  I  respon 
sible  for  his  death?  All  during  last  night 
I  seemed  to  hear  God's  voice  asking:  "Cain, 
where  is  Abel?"  and  I  wail  and  beseech: 
"Am  I  my  brother's  keeper?"  My  soul  is 

126 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

guilty — guilty  of  loving  him — guilty  of  his 
death,  for  had  I  not  loved  him  he  would 
never  have  known  the  Black  Hills.  Oh!  if 
I  could  but  be  resigned — if  I  could  but  bind 
up  my  bleeding  wounds  and  lose  myself  in 
immeasurable  lassitude ! 

I  have  pressed  his  lips  for  the  last  time, 
my  precious  son  is  at  my  breast — his  long 
lashes  are  pressed  tightly  against  his  cheeks 
as  if  to  secure  his  eyes  from  too  strong  a 
light,  or  to  aid  an  effort  of  his  young  soul 
to  recollect  and  hold  fast  a  bliss  that  had 
been  perfect  but  fleeting.  His  tiny  pink  and 
white  ear  framed  by  a  stray  lock  of  his 
hair  and  outlined  by  a  wrapping  of  lace 
from  you,  would  make  an  artist,  a  painter, 
even  an  old  man  wildly  in  love  with  his  per 
fect  little  being,  and  will,  please  God,  re 
store  me,  a  mad  woman  to  her  senses! 

127 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

Come  to  my  Black  Hills,  I  am  crushed, 
desolate,  heart-broken — come  to 

MARIANNE. 


128 


I 

The  Black  Hills. 
July  2. 

One  week  has  passed  Dear,  since  you 
left  us — a  strange  week  of  readjustment  and 
thought.  All  of  those  precious  months  that 
you  have  given  me  are  but  another  expres 
sion  of  your  divine  friendship.  The  poig 
nant  grief  is  gone  with  you  and  my  grati 
tude  to  you  can  but  be  shown  by  the  de 
gree  of  bravery  that  I  now  manifest. 

Every  day  this  week,  my  son  and  I  have 
sat  in  the  sunshine  near  the  two  mounds, 
which  my  remaining  bronze  boy  has  dec 
orated  with  crocuses  from  the  neighboring 
ravine.  He  spends  long  hours  after  dark, 
gathering  wild  flowers  in  the  moonlight. 
His  devotion  to  me  and  my  dead  love,  is  the 
saddest,  most  boundless  tribute  that  an  un- 

129 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

civilized  mind  could  offer.  Silently  he  goes 
about  his  duties;  silently  he  grieves,  and 
more  silently  he  gathers  flowers  as  a  tan 
gible  evidence  of  his  devotion. 

Your  letters  have  come  each  day  and  will 
come  each  day  until  I  lie  too,  beside  my 
love  on  the  desolate  mountain  side.  Such 
is  your  unfailing  love  and  sympathy  for 
me,  all  unworthy  of  your  months  of  sacri 
fice  and  isolation  out  here  in  my  new  home. 
My  son,  bless  his  precious  heart,  tried  to 
crawl  today  but  the  newly  developed  feat 
frightened  his  baby  mind  and  he  cried. 
Closely  almost  roughly,  I  crush  him  to  me 
a  thousand  times  a  day,  so  fearful  am  I 
that  he  too  may  go  to  join  infinitude. 

You  ask  me  to  come  back  to  New  York. 
I  must  refuse  your  request.  I  cannot — I 
cannot  leave  my  home — the  only  place  wor- 

130 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

thy  of  the  name  that  I  have  ever  possessed ! 
Some  day,  maybe,  but  not  now — it  is  all  too 
dear  and  consoling  to  breathe  the  same  air 
that  sustained  me  in  my  perfect  happiness. 
How  can  you  say :  "Don't  regret."  What 
do  you  mean?  Regret  the  only  joy  that  my 
poor  starved  soul  has  ever  known?  No 
atom  of  regret  enters  my  grief — only  a 
great  unbounded  gratitude  to  God,  to  the 
world,  to  Nature,  that  one  perfect  year  has 
been  saved  from  out  the  wreck  of  time ! 

Gratefully, 
MARIANNE. 


131 


The  Black  Hills, 
September  20. 

Two  marvelous  things  have  come  to  me 
today  dear ;  my  son  took  his  first  trembling 
steps  alone,  and  a  letter  came  to  me  from 
the  man  who  was  my  husband.  I  am  trem 
bling  with  joy  over  the  first  and  still  dazed 
with  lack  of  understanding  of  the  second. 
I  enclose  the  letter  as  I  have  long  since 
given  up  trying  to  think  clearly,  and  must 
depend  upon  you,  to  decide  for  me  any  mat 
ters  of  grave  import.  I  am  plunged  in  per 
plexity;  advise  me  after  reading  the  en 
closed  letter. 

Lovingly, 
MARIANNE. 


132 


New  York, 

Sept.  16. 
Dear  Marianne: 

Six  years  ago,  I  found  myself,  though 
fond  of  you,  glad  when  business  took  me 
away.  We  spent  that  summer  in  different 
places,  but  about  October  lived  together 
again.  I  was  still  fond  of  you,  but  at  that 
time  found  Vera,  whose  company  was  very 
pleasing  to  me.  You  and  I  seemed  to  be 
drawn  away  from  each  other  and  we  decided 
to  separate  at  the  end  of  December,  when  I 
started  on  my  long  cruise. 

I  felt  very,  very  sorry  to  leave  you,  but 
something  told  me  that  it  was  better  to  do 
so.  I  remember  you  seemed  to  feel  the 
same,  and  we  kissed  each  other  goodbye  as 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

though  we  were  both  sorry  for  something 
that  had  to  be. 

Leaving  the  question  of  dual  or  multi 
ple  personality  aside,  and  putting  the  mat 
ter  very  simply,  I  believe  that  my  soul  made 
a  right  choice  in  you  my  wife.  I  believe 
that  alcohol  was  necessary  for  a  while  to 
put  my  body,  even  at  its  expense,  into  a 
state  of  conductivity,  so  that  my  soul,  when 
I  was  somewhat  alcoholized,  could  gain 
some  expression ;  give  some  glimpses  of  it 
self  and  suggest  the  trend  of  my  powers. 
For  this  reason  I  believe  that  some  men  are 
made  to  drink  and  drug — but  that  is  another 
subject  which  I  hope  to  take  up  with  you 
more  fully  at  some  future  time. 

My  soul  self  has  always  wanted  my  wife's 
soul  self,  and  I  believe  that  if  I  could  have 
you  back,  my  conquered  body  self  would 

134 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

never  need  to  wander  from  home.  A  little 
more  pliability — all  you  ever  lacked,  and 
which  your  trouble  should  have  brought 
you,  could  make  it  so  that  we  could  live 
together  in  very  perfect  harmony.  Then  I 
could  release  a  lot  of  good  plays  and  good 
writings,  much  of  which  I  know  already  has 
been  completed  by  my  subliminal  self.  I 
get  frequent  glimpses  of  parts  of  plays, 
plots  and  ideas. 

You  cannot  but  feel  proud  of  the  success  of 
my  last  book,  which  ought  to  show  you 
that  I'm  getting  a  grip  of  myself.  My 
mother  and  I  were  en  rapport  and  under  the 
dual  personality  theory,  it  is  reasonable  to 
suppose  that  I  have  been  guided  by  her 
since  her  death.  I  certainly  have  been 
guided  by  God  or  by  her,  and  it  is  reason- 

135 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

able  to  believe  that  she  is  God's  instrument 
of  my  guidance. 

A  young  man  makes  whole  ranges  of 
mountains  out  of  tiny  mole  hills  which, 
when  he  has  learned  sense,  he  will  spread 
under  his  foot  without  noticing  them.  Most 
of  our  differences  were  mere  mole  hills, 
dear,  which  couldn't  thwart  us  now.  For 
we  are  too  big  now,  to  be  so  easily  thwart 
ed.  Can't  we  give  each  other  the  chance  to 
prove  this  to  each  other? 

If  you  will  permit  me  I  will  love  your 
child  as  my  own — as  every  real  man  ought 
to  love  every  child,  dear  little  unfinished 
human  beings.  Formerly  I  thought  I  knew 
a  good  deal ;  but  God  knew  better  and  took 
me  away  from  you  to  teach  me  a  few  les 
sons.  For  they  were  lessons  that  I  alone 
needed  and  God  did  not  want  you  to  un- 

136 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

dergo  them  as  well  as  me.  They  were  les 
sons  calling  for  chastisement  and  you  didn't 
need  chastising. 

I've  taken  God's  punishment  dear,  and 
thanked  Him  for  it.  And  I  believe  I'm  fit 
company  for  you  now. 

I  am  coming  next  Monday  to  Custer,  four 
miles  from  where  you  are,  and  on  Tuesday 
morning,  starting  at  eight,  I  shall  walk 
toward  your  bungalow  by  way  of  the  path 
by  the  river.  I  am  familiar  with  every  inch 
of  the  road,  as  you  know  I  wrote  "Treasure- 
trove"  at  the  Wilson  ranch  near  your  canon. 

Will  you  and  your  little  son  meet  me  if 
only  a  few  yards  from  your  home  so  that 
you  may  judge  for  yourself  if  I  am  fit  com 
pany  for  you  now. 

If  you  do  not  meet  me — then  the  will  of 
Allah  be  done,  for  I  shall  turn  back. 

DONALD. 
137 


October  10. 

Your  message  came  too  late,  dear; 
already  at  eight  o'clock  Tokacon,  with  my 
son  in  his  arms,  and  I  were  far  along  on 
the  river  path  that  leads  out  to  the  world. 
Our  progress  was  slow  with  only  the  croon- 
ings  and  gurglings  of  my  beautiful  child  to 
interrupt  the  silences  of  nature,  as  he  clung 
affectionately  to  the  neck  of  our  red  man 
protector,  whose  solemnity,  though  he  knew 
not  my  mission  was  superb. 

Half  way,  where  Tokacon  has  built  an 
exquisite  rustic  bower,  we  stopped  and 
waited  while  the  Indian  returned  to  the 
bungalow. 

What  a  strange  hour  I  spent  waiting  with 
my  baby,  who  had  fallen  asleep  in  my  arms. 
Thousands  of  rebellious  thoughts  burned 

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Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

themselves  upon  the  retina  of  my  brain,  as 
I  sat  planning  and  wondering.  I  want  to  be 
just,  before  I'm  generous,  or  I'm  afraid  I'll 
never  have  the  chance  to  be  generous.  I 
sat  staring  like  one  at  strife  with  a  memory 
— and  then  he  came,  slowly,  resignedly.  His 
hair  is  quite  white  and  there  are  strange, 
deep  lines  on  his  forehead,  and  marked  par 
entheses  round  his  mouth  which  can  be  but 
the  foot-prints  of  pain  and  thought.  He 
could  not  see  us  in  our  secluded  shelter  and 
I  could  not  make  my  mouth  utter  his  name 
— he  who  had  wrung  my  heart  as  a  peasant 
twists  an  osier  withe. 

On  he  walked  with  his  head  hung  low 
and  a  lost  look  in  his  eyes — then  I  called 
"Don,"  as  I  used  to  do  when  I  loved  him, 
and  he  stopped  suddenly  and  listened  with 
his  hand  to  his  ear.  Again  I  called  "Don." 


139 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 
He  turned  and  saw  us.  Slowly  and  with  the 
dignity  that  he  cannot  lose,  he  came  back 
to  where  we  sat.  He  could  not  speak,  but 
knelt  beside  us  and  kissed  the  baby's  lips; 
my  infant  opened  his  innocent  eyes  and  put 
his  arms  around  Donald's  neck,  as  much  at 
ease  as  though  he  had  known  him  all  of  his 
dear  little  life.  Awake  and  rested,  he  must 
needs  be  tumbled  about  and  played  with, 
which  our  visitor  seemed  pleased  to  do.  The 
strain  would  have  been  more  than  terrible, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  sweet  influence  of 
the  child  who  occupied  us  both  constantly 
on  our  long  walk,  home. 

Meeting  one's  husband  again  after  so 
many  years,  is  something  akin  to  the  sen 
sations  of  drowning — every  ugly  scene  of 
our  married  life  flashed  across  my  brain, 
also  every  kindness  that  he  had  done  me 
became  equally  prominent  in  my  memory, 

140 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 
that    faculty   one    cannot   cast   away   as    one 
throws  down  a  serviette  at  table. 

Twilight  found  us  still  without  words  for 
each  other,  but  when  the  back  logs  were 
lighted  (these  October  nights  are  cold  in 
the  Black  Hills)  our  thoughts  came  more 
freely.  I  find  that  I  care  for  him  as  I  would 
for  something  long  dead  and  half  forgot 
ten,  but  I  am  grateful  for  that,  as  I  was 
half  afraid  that  I  couldn't  be  even  patient 
with  him.  However  the  tolerance  that  we 
learn  through  suffering  is  the  most  beautiful 
offspring  of  real  grief. 

It  was  very  difficult  for  me  to  speak  of 
Carlton  and  our  wonderful  life  that  is  bur 
ied  out  there  on  the  mountain  side,  but  he 
is  indeed  sympathetic  and  never  interrupted 
the  long  and  frequent  silences  that  my  in 
most  memory  created.  The  logs  burnt  in 
halves  and  fell  with  myriad  sparks  and  dis- 

141 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

play  to  the  sides  of  the  fireplace,  but  we 
touched  them  not.  He  seemed  to  realize 
that  Carlton  and  I  were  not  married  in  the 
eyes  of  the  law.  How  he  divined  it  I  do 
not  know,  unless  it  is  that  he  has  an  un 
canny  way  of  reading  one's  thoughts.  He 
said  that  he  knew  and  that  he  understood, 
and  further,  that  I  am  a  stronger  and  better 
woman  for  all  that  I  have  suffered  and  done. 
He  wants  me  to  leave  my  West  and  live 
again  in  New  York,  where  he  hopes  to 
recreate  in  me  the  old  feeling  for  him  which 
he  so  ruthlessly  squandered,  when  it  was 
his  own. 

He  is  earnest  and  sad  and  I  wish  that  I 
might  care  again,  for  he  needs  help  and  so 
do  I,  and  at  least,  with  our  past  experiences 
we  might  escape  some  of  the  ways  of 
wounding  each  other  that  married  people 

142 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

seem  to  possess  in  such  unlimited  quanti 
ties. 

Toward  midnight  the  last  candles  that 
Tokacon  had  placed  in  the  sconces,  flick 
ered  and  went  out.  The  helpless  embers 
flared  up  for  the  last  time,  then  sank  down 
resigned.  Donald  knelt  beside  me  sobbing 
bitterly,  with  his  head  upon  my  knee.  All 
seems  to  be  grief  here  on  this  earth — noth 
ing  but  grief!  For  answer  I  raised  his 
head  and  kissed  his  eyes,  then  fetched  a 
candle  and  lighted  him  to  his  room.  I 
showed  him  my  Indian,  sleeping  outside  my 
door, — which  he  never  forsakes  except  to 
allow  me  to  pass. 

Long  into  the  still  night  I  heard  sobs,  and 
opening  my  door  I  found  Tokacon  swaying 
to  and  fro  near  Donald's  room.  He  seems 
to  understand  grief  more  keenly  than  any 

143 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

cultivated  mind  that  I  have  ever  known,  and 
he  never  intrudes,  though  it  takes  a  mighty 
effort  for  him  to  suppress  his  own  sympathy. 

At  last  it  grew  quiet  and  we  all  rested 
though  we  did  not  sleep.  The  next  morning 
baby  and  I  walked  with  Donald  to  the 
bower  where  we  had  met  him,  and  there  we 
parted.  Tokacon  came  and  carried  the  baby 
back  to  the  bungalow  and  I  followed  later 
on  when  I  felt  sufficiently  calm  to  go  about 
my  simple  duties  again.  I  am  not  a  con 
noisseur  in  consciences,  therefore  I  want 
days  and  still  more  days  in  which  to  think 
and  weigh,  then  maybe  a  decision  will  come 
to  me  as  an  inspiration. 

Donald  will  see  you  as  soon  as  he  returns 
to  New  York — be  honest  with  him  and  yet 
beneficent. 

144 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

A  thousand  kisses  from  my  son  and  me. 
Goodnight, 
MARIANNE. 


145 


December  i. 
Dearest  Lorna: 

For  the  last  time  I  am  writing  to  you 
from  the  place  which  is  dearest  to  me  in  all 
the  universe.  My  personal  things  are 
packed  and  on  the  way  to  Custer.  Tokacon 
is  waiting  with  his  torch  to  set  fire  to  my 
palace  of  dreams. 

I  could  not  return  to  your  world — to  my 
old  world  if  I  thought  that  other  souls  than 
ours  were  living  in  my  home.  The  land,  I 
have  given  to  my  Indian  with  sufficient 
money  to  build  a  home  for  himself,  but  not 
one  corner  of  my  own  shall  remain  to  be 
profaned  by  other  human  emotions. 

Now  I  am  sitting  in  the  machine  at  a  safe 
distance  from  the  flames,  which  amuse  my 
son,  who  is  wild  with  joy  and  excitement 

146 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

over  it.  Tokacon  groans  and  I  weep,  for  it 
is  a  tomb  in  flames  before  us.  Ashes — ashes 
— everywhere — in  my  home  and  in  my 
heart,  and  every  where  except  in  the  smiles 
of  my  child. 

Donald  has  given  me  back  my  home  and 
he  has  taken  rooms  at  the  club — what  peo 
ple  think  and  what  people  say,  mean  noth 
ing  to  me.  I  shall  try  bravely  to  construct 
something  out  of  the  ashes  of  three  lives 
that  will  be  worthy  of  the  respect  of  God's 
elect.  I  cannot  teach  myself  to  forget ;  I  can 
only  await  with  patience  the  reawakening 
which  for  the  sale  of  Donald  and  my  son, 
pray  God,  will  not  delay  too  long  its  com 
ing.  I  suppose  the  family  cannot  be 
built  on  a  foundation  of  passion,  because 
something  on  earth  always  becomes  re 
vengeful  when  human  beings  are  too  happy. 

147 


Letters  of  a  Dakota  Divorcee 

I  shall  never  try  to  be  too  happy  again. 

Now  my  memories  must  lie  entombed  in 
the  arcana  of  memory.  But  some  day  when 
my  son  is  old  enough  to  understand,  I  shall 
come  back  with  him  to  my  Black  Hills  of 
Dakota,  and  breathe  to  him  every  sigh  of 
my  sorrow.  Then  if  he  takes  me  in  his  arms 
and  whispers  "Precious  Mother,"  I  shall 
not  have  loved  and  cherished  in  vain. 

MARIANNE. 


148 


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